


Your Buddy, Your Pal

by Vashoth



Series: Your Buddy, Your Pal; Your Bucky. [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fae AU, Fae!Bucky, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Human!Steve, M/M, Pining Idiots, angst and feelings, because apparently that is my one and only trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashoth/pseuds/Vashoth
Summary: Thousands of years ago humans set out to rid the world of all magical creatures. For the most part they succeeded. Stories of these epic battles were passed down as "fairy tales" that celebrated human triumph. Afterwards, creatures that managed to live through the wars stayed quiet in hopes of continued, undisturbed survival.Well, except for Bucky.





	1. Steve, Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeftHand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/gifts).



> Sooooo. It's another fucking fae AU. Because I have a weakness. And because [Lefty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/pseuds/LeftHand) is an enabler.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes love hits you like a comet. Other times it hits you like a blond guy that's been tossed off the Brooklyn Bridge. Either, or.

* * *

 

 

 

The funny thing about mortality is that it doesn’t give a shit how good your archives are. It doesn’t care about the thousands of documentaries that try to preserve history in resin. Sure, all the mountains discovered, all the books written, all the stars humanity would name and categorize might get preserved in a footnote. But there was nothing that could capture the heatwave from the blast zone of a cold iron bomb washing through your home just before light engulfed everything you knew.

 

In a few hundred years, humans would stop to marvel at the scattered trees, taking samples of the radiated wood, and record the width and depth of the scars dug through the earth like trenches. Their recordings would be as accurate as the height of the discovered mountain, as precise as every preserved word from their books, as carefully organized as the stars. After enough recording, the levelled forest once home to an ancient community became less of a graveyard and more of a field.

 

See, human mortality means that about every few hundred years or so, humanity as a whole will invariably forget everything. Up to, and including, magic.

 

With the way Brooklyn was built, it seemed like some part of humanity had to have remembered--there was iron everywhere. Like whoever had decided to build the Brooklyn Bridge had to have the world's biggest fucking grudge against the fae. Nothing but cold iron rebar underneath the stone exterior. The peaks of the stone structures were still silhouetted on the horizon, but there was enough of the iron and in such density that he felt it clawing its way from out of the marrow in his bones.  

 

The whole fucking city sent chills down the fae’s spine even four miles out.

 

And honestly, who gave a shit if humanity had decided not to believe in the traces of their own atrocities? It didn’t make them any less responsible for the deaths of millions. As far as the faerie was concerned, he was just going to be helping them jog their collective bullshit hive-mind memory. Violently.

 

Now back before everyone he knew had been slaughtered, the fae had been recognizable within the community as the most likely to precede doing something stupid with ‘hold my mead.’ But this was different. He was aware, cognitively, that one fae without back-up was unlikely to be able to take down a small town--never mind one of the largest human settlements on the planet. But this fae was choosing to focus on unlikely not being synonymous with impossible.

 

It wasn’t like he had anything going on. He had a grand total of no one to meet with, no one to talk to, and nothing to do. There was only so long that you could float around the Pacific trying to scare the piss out of reef sharks before you got tired of it. This particular faerie had more than his share of sitting around and waiting for death to find him. So maybe he was feeling a little proactive.

 

He was ready, too, had done his research and everything. Despite their legendary sense of self preservation, humans were weak. Once, there was an article that had caught his eye about ‘water poisoning’. A human had literally over hydrated themselves to death. A different one had just keeled over dead because their own body had decided that the introduction of shellfish warranted complete shut down. Honestly, it was no wonder they perceived anything even vaguely foreign as a threat.

 

But he brought knives and shit just in case.

 

What he was not prepared for was all ninety pounds of blond human landing squarely on his back as he flew under the bridge. Ninety pounds that appeared to be sleeping.

 

The faerie scrambled mid-air, trying to grapple with the man to no avail and squawked loudly when the icy water hit his back _hard_. If he had needed to breathe, this might’ve been a problem. At the moment he was more at a loss for whether or not he needed to actually go to the lengths of stabbing the aforementioned projectile human, or just let it float off.

 

It looked… peaceful. Long lashes in wet clumps fell flat against his cheeks and--aside from faint wheezing--he was silent. The fae tilted his head to the side.

 

“Hey, good catch!” Someone behind him hollered. A woman with a covered cart waved enthusiastically. “You some kind of circus freak?”

 

He squinted. The woman’s cart was full of clothing, cans, and boots (no pairs that he could identify) and her hair was matted something fierce. He looked back at the floating human. At some point he had wrapped an arm beneath him to keep the man from floating away. He didn’t remember doing that.

 

“Should’a let’im fall,” the woman yelled. “He’ll be back to jump next week, I’m tellin’ ya!”

 

The floating man’s brow furrowed and he scrunched up his nose. Suddenly the peace and stillness was gone from him like a low grade glamour,and his chest was expanding and contracting rapidly.Images of drowned humans flashed to the forefront of the faerie’s mind. Without thinking, he brought both arms under the human to support his weight and helped him sit up.

 

When the thick blond lashes finally lifted, the fae found himself staring at impossibly blue eyes. And with the blue was that spark of violence he’d expected. Anger twisted the young man’s face into a snarl.

 

“You one of the assholes tryin’ to mack on Jane Partridge?” He spat out. “She said no, you piece of shit.”

 

The fae blinked. “Who?”

 

The man squinted at him, then at his surroundings. The water seemed to be a surprise. The woman yelling on the shoreline moreso. The anger on his face gave way to shock when he looked back up at the bridge. He jolted in the fae’s arms, suddenly struggling to sit up right.

 

“They threw me off the bridge,” the man mumbled. “I can’t fuckin’ believe it. They threw me off the goddamn bridge.”

 

The fae wondered distantly if now would be a good time to loosen his grip and slip away to find a less crazy human to start his rampage with. Like he’d sensed the thought (could humans do that?), the blond man whipped his head around to stare at him again. The fae mentally cataloged where all his knives were.

 

“And you,” the human addressed him again, the fight in his voice still apparent. “You sure you aren’t a buddy of theirs?”

 

“No,” he returned dryly. “I’m actually not--”

 

“Flew through the air like a bird!” The woman on the shoreline hollered. She picked one of the cans out of her cart and chucked it into the air to demonstrate. “Whoosh, blam! Nabbed you right outta the sky!”

 

The fae paled a little. He was fairly certain humans weren’t supposed to fly. “No, I just--”

 

The human in his arms scrunched his nose up again and held a hand to his temple like he was trying to rub a headache out of his skin. “You saved me?”

 

The faerie did drop the human then, or at least he tried to. The man’s skinny arms shot out and wrapped around his neck, locking his hands together. The faerie went rigid in the water. He was all too aware of how close this human was. Closer than any of his family had ever been and that still hadn’t stopped humans from murdering the shit out of them. He swallowed.

 

“Sure.” It wasn’t technically a lie. The word stung the back of his throat a little in warning. Too close to a lie to repeat.

 

The human’s eyes went wide again and the faerie tried to edge one of his hands down to the belt holding one of his glass daggers.

 

“Well…” One of the arms around the faerie’s neck slapped against his shoulder heartily. The fae flinched. “Guess that makes you my hero, huh? Name’s Steve Rogers. Nice to meet ya.”

 

The faerie stared. Was he stupid? Did he not sense a threat when it was literally inches from his face? How could this possibly be the same species responsible for the extinction of--

 

“You uh,” Steve tried again. “You got a name, or…?”

 

He coughed a little and scoured through his brain for human names. Why did it matter? He could just kill the human and be done with it. Big blue eyes stared at him expectantly. The human did nothing to guard himself from attack. He just sat there, fully content to be carried by a stranger in the water under the menacing Brooklyn Bridge.

 

“Named after, uh,” he stammered. “...the President.”

 

Steve blinked. “Which one?”

 

“Fifteenth.” He was pretty sure there had been fifteen. At least. Maybe twenty?

 

“James Buchanan?” Steve raised a brow and looked again like he expected more information. “Your last name’s Buchanan? Seriously?”

 

The faerie looked away nervously and scanned the horizon. A billboard advertising ‘farm fresh milk--straight from the barn!’ stood out.

 

“Barn,” he blurted. “...s. Barns.”

 

The human looked appeased. “James Buchanan Barnes. What a name.”

 

“Sounds fake, don’t it?” The fae said with a humorless grin.

 

“It does,” Steve agreed. “Think I’ll call you Bucky for short. You alright with that, hero?”

 

Hero was what humans called those of their kind that they had revered for the slaughter of dragons. He supposed ‘Bucky’ was preferable.

 

“Sure, Steve,” Bucky replied. “That works fine.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

After the incident on the Brooklyn Bridge, the fae had just decided to go home. He’d arrived to kill as many humans as possible and had ended up somehow saving one. He figured cutting his losses might not be such a bad idea. Starting over later only made sense, right?

 

He had been extra cautious when he flew under the bridge, keeping an eye out for wiry blond projectiles. The lady with the cart was still on the shoreline, and yelled something at him as he passed that he decided to ignore. It still felt wrong to interact with anything that had happened that day. He had been under the impression that humans would do anything to survive--including killing their own.

 

They even had words for different types of killing of their own: fratricide, patricide, homicide, genocide.

 

Exactly one and a half years later, the faerie still wasn’t sure what that human had been babbling on about. Something about a different human, the importance of consent, and a raucous follow up containing slang he wasn’t even sure where to begin looking up. The short of it was that there were two much larger men that had ended up throwing the little one off a bridge--somehow a woman was involved.

 

To be honest he had started tuning out about halfway through.

 

He wished he hadn’t, later on. When he realized that the small one--Steve--must have intentionally placed himself in harm's way. It went against everything he’d read. Which meant that other stuff could be faulty too. More important stuff like whether or not a knife could actually harm a human (he’d seen some troubling things involving organs--some were vital and others apparently weren’t).

 

It took him a full year and a half before he made it back to Brooklyn proper. Of course he ran into Steve not two minutes after his arrival.

 

“Hey! Bucky!” The human greeted, seemingly delighted behind his broken nose and blackening eye. More damage, he thought. Possibly thrown off another bridge. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, jerk! Where’ve you been?”

 

“Uh,” he stuttered. An uninhabitable island off the coast of Greenland was the honest answer. He thought carefully. “Around.”

 

_Nailed it._

 

“Looks like it. Never seen anyone in a getup like that,” Steve laughed and punched his arm. The faerie looked down at his clothing. Okay, so maybe the tunic was a little ripped up, and certainly the pants were tighter than they had been a few years back, but his braids were still in place and--“Hey, whoa, you okay?”

 

The human had ducked down to catch his eyes again. He looked worried. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just figured you were an actor or somethin’.”

 

“An actor?” The faerie repeated.

 

Blond brows furrowed and the human’s expression looked awfully familiar to when he’d accused Bucky of harassing Jane Partridge. The fae tapped a finger on the hilt of the dagger strapped to his upper thigh.

 

“Hey. You homeless?” Steve’s voice got softer. “No judgment.”

 

“What?”

 

“Shit,” Steve looked abashed and the fae was relatively sure they’d stopped speaking the same language. “I’m sorry, I woulda offered you a place to crash if I’d known. C’mon. I’ve got you.”

 

He grabbed for the fae’s arm and the fae jerked away. “Is this a trick?”

 

Steve’s surprised features were carved in stone for a minute or two as he stammered. “What? God, no, jesus Buck. I’m not gonna let my hero sleep on the streets, alright? No trick.”

 

“Your hero,” he repeated. _Bucky_ , he admonished himself. He was supposed to be responding to _Bucky_. “Aren’t your heroes supposed to be more violent?”

 

Steve grinned. “Not the best ones.”

 

He could’ve reached for the dagger. He knew that. He could’ve actually started getting revenge for the death of his people and he could’ve started with poor hapless Steve. It would have been so easy. Which is why it felt so… wrong. Like Steve turning his back to him was a sign of trust he still wasn’t quite sure he had earned.

 

Besides, he was going to get to see a real bonafide human nest. That shit was legendary.

 

So the fae, _Bucky_ , grit his teeth and followed the skinny blond man from Brooklyn.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Listen, I’ll take the couch tonight,” Steve insisted.

 

“What?” Bucky gave him an alarmed look. “No, I--”

 

“You got somewhere else to be?” Steve raised an eyebrow.

 

“Uh,” Bucky paused. “Like a home?”

 

Steve nodded.

 

He wanted to say yes. Wanted for once to be able to lie as freely as a human could and escape without explanation. Wanted to say that his little shed off the coast of Greenland might have counted.

 

But human stories always made a distinction between a house and a home. He wasn’t really sure which he had. He was fae--he couldn’t lie.

 

So instead Bucky found himself saying, “I don’t think I do.”

 

Again he found the human had wrapped his arms around him and again Bucky was unsure if this was a sign of affection or the prelude to an attack. But Steve radiated impressive heat for someone so small, and his hair looked like spun gold in the low light. He pressed his nose into it and a trace of peppermint oils eased the weight of his dagger from his mind.

 

When those blue eyes were on him again, Bucky found himself agreeing to stay the night. He wondered distantly if he had missed the part in his readings where humans had the power of persuasion.

 

He wondered why none of the humans he read about were anything like Steve.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two months. It took two months for him to get used to being called Bucky. Or Buck. Or, if he was in trouble, _Barnes_. (Steve had spelled it with an ‘e’ and Bucky didn’t have the heart to correct him--it wasn’t a real name anyway).

 

Bucky had already been hiding his wings with a glamour trick that kept them pressed into his skin in the form of tattoos, but the weight and heat of them never really left, per se. He still didn’t need a jacket when Steve did because he had the equivalent of forty feather quilts wrapped around his shoulders at any given moment. Wonderfully useful trick during the winter, and one that he’d rather enjoyed teaching himself back on the island of the coast of Greenland. But with the dawning realization that Steve expected him to stay came the realization that Brooklyn summers would be _miserable_.

 

And he was right.

 

The weight of the iron city was stifling enough already without adding actual humidity to the mix. Despite Bucky’s job at the docks, they still couldn’t afford a fan. He was considering sneaking off to go maul livestock for food like the good old days--could save money on groceries that way--but something told him that even Steve would notice something was weird if he came home late covered in pigs blood.

 

Probably.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve practically bounded in from his bedroom. “I got something to cheer you up.”

 

“M’not upset,” Bucky insisted for the umpteenth time, sprawled out on the living room floor.

 

He’d tossed his shirt off and flung it at the couch hours ago and his arm was still outstretched from the movement. He really wasn't upset. More resigned. But that was mostly because he was deeply regretting not learning more environmental magic while his family had been alive. Upset implied there was a way to right things and that wasn’t something Steve could fix.

 

Steve knelt next to him and carefully started spreading out posters, books, pamphlets, and heartily scribbled in notepads full of drawings of--

 

Bucky sat up.

 

“Your parents ever tell you stories about the Magic Wars?” Steve’s eyes lit up.

 

Bucky swallowed. “Yeah. They did.”

 

“S’just superstition, I know, but… My ma used to collect this stuff for me. She was a real believer,” Steve nodded solemnly. “Made monthly offerings to the Fair Folk and everything.”

 

Bucky couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. “Didn’t all the Fair Folk die in the war?”

 

“I dunno,” Steve shrugged. “She said she still believed they were out there. Saved a buncha stuff about them. And elves, and dragons, and… just all sorts of stuff.”

 

Steve stared at one of the books, running his hand over the cover reverently. Bucky recognized it. It was one of the retellings of the biggest battles, written by humans. It described how they valiantly outmaneuvered the harpies, banished the pixies, and topped it off with outwitting the fae. The humans never mentioned that their wit took the form of a cold iron bomb.

 

“Just think it’s sad, y’know?” Steve said. “I mean, I know it ain’t real, but that makes it kinda worse. All these beautiful creatures we thought up and all we could do was kill’em.”

 

“Says volumes about humans, doesn’t it?” Bucky didn’t hide the anger in his voice this time and Steve looked at him.

 

He was quiet for a long time, flipping through the pages and running a fingertip over the embossed illustrations inside. The sand coloured illustration of the sphinx had jutting fangs and an open maw with bits of flesh still stuck near its gums. The human explorers beneath it cowered behind their shields and spears. On a separate page, the pixies swarmed a hapless looking human, gouging its flesh with their knives as its blood pooled.

 

The page with the fae looked like a nightmare. Its mouth split across its face in a wicked grin, and its hands curved into jagged claws. The glow of its eyes wasn’t warm or full of emotion--they were cold and deadly. Around it were towering trees and mushrooms. The artist had splattered ink everywhere to mimic the shadow cast by the canopy.

 

It looked nothing like the family Bucky remembered.

 

“I think…” Steve started quietly. Bucky didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on the claws. More emotions simmered through Steve’s head than Bucky could follow. Fear and curiosity most strongly. “I think this is an exaggeration.”

 

Bucky blinked. _Curiosity, doubt, resolve_.

 

“I mean,” Steve sat up again and waved a hand to placate Bucky’s look. “I know, fake n’all that. But someone made this up, right? Can’t imagine they made something just to hate it.”

 

He turned the page to a two-page spread of the forest. The fae sat in circles, and magic swirled around their outstretched hands spiraling up into the night sky. It looked peaceful. Bucky’s heart ached.

 

“This is what I mean,” Steve gestured at the page. “Why would anything so beautiful turn so ugly for no reason, y’know?”

 

Bucky looked at him again. Red coloured Steve’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. Bucky stayed silent.

 

“I know it’s stupid,” he sighed.

 

Bucky shuffled forward to take the book gingerly from Steve’s grasp. He pointed to the circle of fae. “You don’t think that’s an attack?”

 

“Nah,” Steve shook his head and tapped lightly on the face of the largest fae. “They look too peaceful.”

 

He turned the page back and tapped on the attacking fae’s teeth. “This one looks scared.”

 

Bucky studied Steve, not the book. The determination that was written into every line in his face was remarkable. It matched the faces of the human footsoldiers Bucky had been taught to fear--but he didn’t fear Steve. Couldn’t. He could still feel the fear rolling off Steve in waves, worried that Bucky would reject his ideas or call them stupid. Could feel the righteous anger somewhere deep under the layers of concern that still sparked just as bright whenever Steve found someone to defend.

 

A smile tugged at Bucky’s lips. “Y’know, I reckon you’re right, Stevie.”

 

“Yeah?” Steve’s grin was blinding. The fear melted away nearly instantaneously to a warm joy that filled the room faster than the fading daylight. Steve’s eyes were bright on his and Bucky had to focus to make sure his own didn’t glow in return. “I dunno. Everyone always said I was crazy for believing anyway. Not that I do--”

 

“I think I might,” Bucky said carefully. “Believe in magic, I mean.”

 

“Yeah?” Steve asked again.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Maybe he could tell Steve the truth.

 

The words sat waiting behind his teeth. He wanted to tell Steve that he was right, that maybe humans had misunderstood the fae. That maybe the misunderstanding was mutual. His whole being thrummed high strung with energy as he watched the sunlight catch in Steve’s eyelashes, watched his hand trace the words written in captions next to the paintings.

 

He ran his tongue across his bottom lip and took a breath to speak when Steve muttered something else. He abandoned the thought as quickly as it came.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Think they woulda liked me?” Steve’s cheeks were redder still. “Pro’lly woulda just ended up dead, huh?”

 

Bucky laughed at that, remembering very clearly the recommendation from one of his aunts to kill and eat humans on sight. “Well, I dunno about the fae as a whole, but....”

 

He reached out and flicked the tip of Steve’s nose.

 

“Think anyone would have to be pretty stupid not to like you, Stevie.”

 

Steve stared at him, mouth agape for a full ten seconds before recovering quickly enough to throw the book at Bucky’s chest.

 

“Shut up,” Steve grumbled. But Bucky could see the corner of his lip quirked up into a smile.

 

“Nah,” Bucky reached out and ruffled his hair, laughing again when Steve frantically tried to smooth it back down. “Don’t think I will, punk.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Listen, I’ve been thinkin,” Bucky said over his shoulder from the stove of the kitchenette. “I should be paying you rent. Been here ‘bout a year now; figure it’s about time.”

 

Steve looked up from his sketchpad and scowled as soon as the words registered.

 

“Buck, you didn’t own anything but the clothes on your back when I met you--”

 

“--and saved your life, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the spiel, Stevie,” Bucky waved his free hand to cut him off and kept stirring with the other. “Still. I looked it up, and rent around here seems to go at about $50. So how ‘bout $35? To make up for lost time.”

 

“What?” Steve squinted. “No, you’re not payin’ me more than half--you don’t even have a job!”

 

“That,” Bucky picked the soup pot off the burner (remembering to make a show of it as if it weighed anything) and placed it carefully on a potholder. “That would be where you’re wrong.”

 

Steve actually stood up at that, eyes wide. Bucky felt a wave of emotions crashing through his head like a cyclone and briefly felt dizzy. _Shock, irritation, amazement, gratitude_ , then _guilt_. Always with the crushing guilt. Steve opened his mouth to speak.

 

“Swear to god, Stevie, if you’re ‘bout to give me one of your star-spangled lectures about fairness and justice demanding society pay me whatever I’m due,” Bucky shook a spoon at him, “I will personally sign you up in the next non-refundable all-you-can-eat sauerkraut contest I can find.”

 

The blond shuddered in a knee-jerk reaction and Bucky grinned.

 

“That ain’t even a real thing,” Steve mumbled, but he seemed to accept defeat. “Sides, Buck. That’s not why I don’t want you to pay rent, either.”

 

The fae blinked at him and leaned back on the stove. The still hot burner hit against the small of his back and he flinched forward, reached around to flip the stove switch off, then lean back again. He’d already accidentally put holes in too many shirts. It was starting to get embarrassing.

 

“Yeah? Then why’s that?” Bucky pressed.

 

Steve shifted and fiddled with the pencil still in his hands. “I dunno. Just don’t want you to feel like you owe me nothin’.”

 

“Including rent,” Bucky deadpanned.

 

“Don’t want you to be nice to me ‘cause you think you gotta,” Steve wasn’t making eye contact anymore. “I know I’m not the liveliest guy, y’know?”

 

The fae tilted his head. “Hold on.”

 

_Fear, shame, humiliation, guilt, guilt, guilt._

 

“Are you afraid that I’ve been pretending to be your friend?” Bucky accused. “That I wouldn’t be your friend if I paid you rent?”

 

“Well--”

 

Bucky hurled the spoon at Steve’s head and took great satisfaction at the solid _thunk_ it made. Steve fell back on his ass, pencil flying a couple feet away. He wheezed in surprise and for just a split second Bucky wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have thrown the spoon. Then the fight returned to Steve’s eyes and maybe if the man wasn’t a pile of twigs Bucky would’ve been marginally intimidated.

 

“Alright listen,” Bucky pointed at him to make sure he had Steve’s attention. Wide blue eyes watched him in shock. “I didn’t come to Brooklyn to make friends, alright? Then this skinny blond shit fell out of the goddamn sky and now here I am. You really think you could keep me here against my will?”

 

Steve opened his mouth as if to respond then closed it again at Bucky’s glare.

 

“Damn right.” Bucky turned around and rummaged through the ice box to get one of the freeze packs they kept by the dozen. He tossed it over to Steve guiltily. “Put that on your forehead or you’ll somehow manage to die from a bruise.”

 

“M’fine, Buck, I don’t--”

 

Bucky turned around and gave him that _look_. Steve grinned sheepishly and pressed the ice pack to his forehead.

 

“Can’t say I’ve ever had any friends that threw a spoon at me before declaring their friendship,” Steve said wryly. “You sure are a charmer.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky huffed and went about finding bowls and silverware. Or mugs. Or whatever the hell they had that wasn’t shattered to bits. “Takes one to know one.”

 

And really, Bucky should have known that trouble was brewing when Steve fell silent. Steve never conceded that easily, and he was certainly _never_ silent unless he was actively doing something else. But, just sitting there, staring at Bucky with that same weird mix of curiosity and awe that he’d had the day he’d fallen right into the fae’s lap? That should’ve spelled danger.

 

“Hey Buck.”

 

All the red flags came swooping in at once. Bucky lifted a brow warily.

 

“Yeah, Stevie?”

 

Steve had that look on his face that he got whenever he was about to do something particularly stupid. Or talk about justice. That venn diagram was more like a circle, though.

 

“You know I’m with you right?” Steve said quietly. Bucky stilled. “I mean. It’s the same for you, Buck. I’m with you til the end of the line.”

 

He looked so serious when he said it. The dust particles that caught the light from the window seemed to glitter like they’d been frozen in time. Bucky wrenched his gaze away from Steve and back to the soup pot before he saw the light blue glow in his eyes he couldn’t quite contain. He cleared his throat.

 

“Yeah, Stevie, I know,” the fae said. “Til the end of the line.”

 

 


	2. Bucky, Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's sour gummies, hidden markets, Bambi, and a painting one brush stroke too close to the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this was meant to be the first half of the chapter but uh. I got carried away. I just love Bucky Barnes a lot, okay? 
> 
> Plus, [Lefty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/pseuds/LeftHand) made the recommendation that I let you guys have a breather before I hit you with what's coming next. While I'm not usually fond of exercising mercy, I'll allow it just this once.

* * *

 

 

 

There was a small field in southern Massachusetts that Bucky would sneak off to occasionally. An elderly couple kept a couple thousand cows, hundreds of goats, and enough chickens to feed a small army. It was an easy flight, but he could only make it when he was absolutely sure he wouldn’t get caught. Still, it was worth it. There was only so much cabbage stew he could choke down--he wasn’t meant to eat cooked things. And all the processing that went into the hot dogs Steve liked were… Unnatural.

 

He only ate the sicker and weaker animals, although the couple never really noticed when any of them went missing. Nothing, _nothing_ beat the taste of a fresh kill. No matter how many times Steve insisted that the bagel joint down the road sold the best food on the planet.

 

But then, humans had this weird need to salt, spice, and burn everything they ate. He supposed Steve couldn’t help it. There had been a couple nights where Bucky had had to conjure up an illusion version of what they were eating and pretend to consume it. He couldn’t get away with it often, but he would probably rather die than eat jerky ever again in his life.

 

Candy, though. Candy he could get behind. The first time Steve brought home some sour gummies Bucky had practically inhaled the whole bag. Sour gummies, Bucky thought, might be good enough to replace raw red meat. Maybe.

 

As it turns out, he was not the only magical creature with a sweet tooth. One night, he was flying back from the field in Massachusetts when he spotted the crazy lady that was always next to the Brooklyn Bridge. He would rather stab himself with cold iron than admit that he had a soft spot for theramblings she shouted at him whenever he passed, but he did. Maybe it was because she was the only human to really know what he was. Maybe it was pity that no one would ever believe her.

 

Whatever it was, he always glanced her way when he passed and that night was no exception. When he did, he nearly ran smack into a billboard. His wings pulled up harshly. He swooped downwards to regain his speed and balance (and maybe get a better look), and sure enough he saw her sitting squarely on the bank of the river, feeding candies to a swarm of pixies like they were nothing more than pigeons.

 

Their wings glowed against the night and reflected the dots of lit windows along the New York skyline in their tiny little huddle. The woman tossed up a handful of whatever it was and cackled in glee as they wove around the air fast enough to leave streaks of light to snag the candy before it dropped. As Bucky flew closer, he could hear the tell-tale hum pixies used to communicate beating out in a rapid fire staccato, peppered with delighted trills and chirps.

 

The woman watched him as he landed, not batting an eye when he tucked his wings away into the tattooed charm on his back.

 

“Wondered when you’d be back, barn owl!” she spoke way too loudly. Bucky cringed and kept his distance.

 

The pixies took a break from their games to swirl around his legs, wrap up around his waist, and pass by his ears and neck so closely that the whisper of their wings almost sounded intelligible. He felt strands of his hair tug outward, watching fondly as three of the brighter pixies wove pinches of his locks into a neat braid.

 

He wished it didn’t make his heart stutter.

 

One of the pixies behind him was tugging a little harder on a single strand of hair and Bucky’s lip curled up in displeasure. He turned to snap at the little bugger, but with one solid yank, it ripped the hair out at the root. Bucky yelped and swatted the pixies away. The humming grew louder and a couple took a snap at his hand before the pixie with a strand of his hair darted away into the night.

 

Bucky heard the damnable madwoman laughing her ass off behind him as he leapt off the ground to give chase.

 

They darted under the bridge, hid their glow in the reflections of the water, and split the swarm into separate parts to try and throw him off, but still he followed. Further and further they took him from the shoreline, to the banks of Ellis Island. Just before reaching the sand, the pixies took a sudden dive into the water. Bucky pulled up short and stared, expecting them to resurface.

 

They didn’t.

 

Frowning, he flew closer. Soft glowing radiated from under the glassy surface, but it wasn’t the same lively movement of pixie wings. It was steady. Rearing back, Bucky took a deep breath before plunging in. With a couple powerful beats of his wings, he realized that he was already far deeper than the sand bank should have allowed. Though the water stung his eyes, he could see the distant glow becoming brighter and brighter until he could see the shape of an enormous dome.

 

It was crystal clear, and moved gently with the flow of the current like a bubble. Inside it were vendors that had parked their stalls in dry sand, with rows and rows of trinkets, bobbles, dried mushrooms and herbs. The whole dome covered about four rows of town-house sized shops. More astonishing yet were the literal crowds of creatures that hovered and window shopped as casually as could be--as if they weren’t a paltry hundred yards or so beneath one of the largest swells of human population. Wings unabashedly fluttered, and tails whipped around behind the creatures as they moved--everything from gnomes, to naga, and... Bucky squinted. It looked like there was an actual angel in the midst of everything. He scowled.

 

Soon as he spotted the great feathery wings, he saw the swarm of purple and pink pixie glow whooshing behind them. Bucky kicked his legs gently and followed the movement to the dimmer side of the market. Here the trinkets shone a little too bright, and there were vials of unlabelled liquids, powders, and gels that Bucky had his suspicions about. The mushrooms he saw then were undeniably fae. Each with unnatural patterns and dark blue and purple stains where they had been crushed against their wooden crates. Some were sold in bunches, marked with a labels “full ring” or “half ring.”

 

He watched in horror as a naga gentleman happily handed off a bag of the mushrooms to a lady with enormous tusks and long drooping ears. As if the mushrooms weren’t part of something that didn’t exist anymore. She swung the bag over her shoulder and Bucky felt faint when the mushrooms were smushed under the weight of the purse she slung on over it, like he could physically feel the scarce traces of his people being ripped away from him.

 

He wanted to move forward and breach the dome to give them both a piece of his mind when the pixies approached next. The one that had stolen his hair hoisted it out to the naga, who donned tiny silver spectacles to inspect it. Even from a distance, Bucky saw the shock on his face when he looked back at the swarm.

 

Something deep inside Bucky wanted him to recognize the significance--wanted him to sound the alarms and send out a search party for the last fae forgotten to the magical world. He wanted to be welcomed home with open arms, commended for surviving, and treasured.

 

Treasured in the same way Steve treasured him.

 

His heart tugged guiltily in his chest. He shouldn’t be down here. He shouldn’t have indulged in this wild chase. And he certainly shouldn’t have been risking discovery. Especially not if his own community would be likely to throw him under the proverbial bus as quickly as the pixies had spotted an opportunity.

 

Sure enough, his stomach sank past his feet as he watched the naga vendor hand the pixies a bag of crumpled dollar bills and coins big enough that they whole swarm had to struggle to carry it in a joint effort.

 

Seeing the magical community thrive under human rule was one thing. Seeing them thrive and not miss his people? That hurt. Bucky clenched his teeth, and flexed his fingers at his side. All that he was worth to the magical world he didn’t know still existed represented in that bag full of human money. All for one strand of Bucky’s hair. And not a single search party.

 

When the pixies pushed through the surface of the dome back into the water, Bucky didn’t feel an ounce of regret when he froze the time around them. He took his time swimming over to them, letting the anger he felt shine light blue through his eyes and savouring the harsh shadows it cast on the faces of the tiny creatures. He plucked the bag of money from their joint grasps and pocketed the bills. He left the coins, though. At the questioning looks he received, he responded by projecting vivid images of the pixies meeting Bucky under the bridge. He would give them hair, tears, blood, or whatever else the vendor would buy and they could sell it. But he would get the lionshare of the profit.

 

 _Clear?_ He projected his voice throughout their minds, accompanying it with images of ripped off wings, torn open abdomens, and dead pixies piled in the middle of a mushroom ring.

 

The swarm was practically vibrating in fear where he left them, sharply contrasting the look of awe that spread on Stevie’s face when Bucky dropped a stack of new comic books in front of him.

 

“How’d you afford this, Buck?” Steve asked.

 

Bucky just shrugged, staring at the wide smile on the human’s face. “It was worth it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time he cried was a world shattering thing. Steve had insisted they go see the that new animated movie, Bambi, despite it looking very much like it was intended for younger humans. Bucky was dubious before, but he now knew with absolute certainty that he was never trusting the movie rating system ever again--or Steve’s taste in movies for that matter. Steve had not mentioned that death would be a part of the movie. And thus when Bambi’s mother collapsed to the forest floor and heaved one final breath, Bucky found himself in a dimly lit room next to a crying Steve.

 

“Psst, hey. Stevie,” Bucky nudged him. “Hey. You sick?”

 

“Fuck off, Buck,” Steve shoved Bucky’s elbow away and furiously scrubbed at his face. “It’s a sad scene, okay?”

 

Bucky tilted his head to the side, squinting at Steve in confusion. “What?”

 

Steve’s scowl slowly morphed to confusion as he took one, two, three glances at the still baffled Bucky.

 

“Are you kidding me?” Steve hissed.

 

Someone in the back of the theatre hushed them. Bucky was sorely tempted to turn their seat into poison ivy, but he settled for shooting them one of his harshest glares.

 

“I mean it. If you’re gettin’ sick, we should get you home before it gets colder,” Bucky insisted quietly. “We can always watch this later, alright?”

 

Steve groaned and rested his face in his hands. Even without lighting Bucky could see the red tinting his cheeks and ears, and felt the embarrassment coming off of him in waves. Steve mumbled something he didn’t catch.

 

“What?”

 

“M’not sick, Buck. I’m cryin’.”

 

A long pause.

 

“ _You’re what?_ ”

 

Steve shoved him again and sniffled sharply. He scrubbed again at his eyes and this time Bucky caught sight of the tear tracks. As Steve’s eyes met the screen again, the embarrassment was replaced with sadness. First it was normal, the kind of sad Steve got when he got cooped up inside for too long. Then it was a little stronger, like when Bucky had to leave to pick up an extra shift. Then it plunged deep to that same intensity Bucky felt earlier. This time, Bucky watched as the tears welled up in Steve’s eyes, feeling the direct correlation between the heart wrenching sadness and Steve’s determined blinking.

 

Bucky kept waiting for the feeling to let up--for some kind of relief but it just kept getting worse. Slowly it ached deep in his chest until it felt like he’d swallowed cold iron. He wanted to curl into himself and howl until the coin that must have been pressed to his skin was ripped away. He wanted to move, to stretch, to run or yell or do anything if it would just stop.

 

Then came the visions.

 

When Steve felt something strongly enough, Bucky could sometimes skim images and words off the top of his thoughts. But this, _this_ was unlike anything Bucky had seen.

 

He saw a frail woman with pale blond hair and a nose that looked like Stevie’s in a hospital bed. The paper gown was enormous on her. Bones threatened to break skin at every possible angle and she wheezed against tubes that were stuck down her throat. Bucky felt her hand around his (around Steve’s), felt the tremor in her voice when she said she’d be okay. Watched as the monitor behind her flatlined. He felt the chill surface of the hospital blankets when Steve hurled himself on top of her, shoulders shaking same as Bambi.

 

The image blurred, and for a second Bucky hoped the feeling would retreat with it. Something warm and wet touched his cheek and he jerked back in surprise. The heat slid down his cheek, taking the blur with it and Bucky found himself blinking at Steve in the theatre again. Tears streamed down the blond man’s cheeks, but his lips were quirked upwards in a fond smile.

 

There was an interrupted blast of nervousness that got quickly knocked down by that weird Steve-ness that Bucky felt whenever Steve was about to pick a fight with a stranger. Something like need--like a physical ailment that required him to get involved.

 

Bucky’s hand felt warm and he looked down to see Steve’s hand wrapped around it gently. He looked back up at Steve, who was chewing on his lip nervously.

 

“This okay?” Steve asked quietly.

 

Bucky worked to keep his own emotions in check--he had enough secondary emotion coming through Steve already--to make sure his eyes didn’t glow in the theatre like a goddamn bullseye. He took a page out of Steve’s book and used his free hand to scrub at his face, wiping the tears messily on his sleeve. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. The first thing that came to mind was the bitter rage he felt after an argument with a family friend’s son, but he had just been a child then.

 

As sudden as the human invasion, memories of his family’s slaughter bubbled to the surface of his mind. He saw the wreckage of the home he grew up in. Saw his sister’s arm hanging limp over the shattered glass window. Saw the tree branches broken and bent from where the cold iron shrapnel hit them. He remembered the pain that hummed in the air like pixie wings.

 

The tears wouldn’t stop coming now. Bucky stopped scrubbing at his face and opted instead to cover his own mouth harshly to quiet a broken sob. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could before they could start to glow.

 

Steve’s hand lifted off of his and Bucky snatched it out of the air again, this time lacing their fingers together and squeezing. He could hear Steve’s breath stutter beside him and felt something overwhelmingly good cut through the sadness. It was short, sharp, and sudden relief. Like Steve had personally taken the cold iron coin he felt in his chest and had hurled it far away where it didn’t make the air sting.

 

The sadness still lingered, but he could control it. Could feel it in waves through Steve, could feel it aching in his own essence. And he could feel it slowly leaving him, carried away by tears.

 

In the back of a dark dingy theatre in Brooklyn, or the first time in thousands of years, the last surviving fae allowed himself to grieve.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next chance he got, Bucky pocketed a glass vial and ducked out of the apartment in the early hours of the morning. He soared over the Atlantic, speed speaking volumes of his desperation. When he could no longer see the lines of the city on the horizon, he let himself fall apart.

 

He screamed, screamed until his throat was raw. He clawed at the waves and used magic to hurl them up at the fading stars that had no right to glitter down peacefully when they witnessed so much. He beat his wings furiously against the wind, climbing higher and higher until his skin tingled with the atmospheric change. Then he closed his eyes, stilled, and let himself plummet.

 

The wind combed through his hair as he fell and tugged at the sleeves of the shirt Steve had bought him for Hanukkah. It felt like a tether, keeping him leashed to humans and their damnable mortality. To the fear they felt so intensely. The fabric caught the air like sails and gripped at his back in hard lines, like it could offer flight when his wings couldn’t.

 

As Bucky felt the mist of the cloudline pass him, he let his eyes flutter open and slowly stretched his wings back out. And just when he was close enough to touch the surface of the water did he shove the air away from him harsh enough to sent white and tawny feathers flying around him.

 

He hovered there as best he could, staring at his reflection in the water. He looked so… Human.

 

Bucky swallowed.

 

He fumbled in his pocket for the glass vial, feeling the shame and fear rise up in his throat like bile. What would his family say, to know that he had not only been living amongst the humans, but that he had befriended one? Or worse, that he cared for one. That the last remaining evidence of their people spent cold Brooklyn nights tucked snugly against Steve’s back since they couldn’t afford a heater. That he hadn’t felt anything so strongly as he had in that dark theatre when Steve took his hand.

 

When the tears came, Bucky was ready to catch them in the vial (distantly aware of the strange vanity of the act). It was a round, palm sized little thing, but still he managed to fill about half of it. Long after the tears stopped coming he stared at it. It glowed the soft light blue that he worked so hard to keep Steve from seeing.

 

For now, the vial would help them with rent for at least another three months. And maybe that shiny new art kit he’d seen Steve eyeballing. Maybe that was close enough to the truth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“C’mon Buck, it isn’t that hard,” Steve threw his hands up in the air. He pointed at the leather coated stick between them that he kept insisting had something (anything) to do with gears. Or shifts. Or gears that were shifting. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure. “You release the clutch, then you-- Yes! There you go!”

 

They cruised amiably down the country road in the shitty rust pile of a car Steve had borrowed from Bucky’s boss. Walking into the supervisor’s office to see Steve demanding that the man lend them his car was a sight Bucky didn’t think he’d ever forget. The burly old ship captain stared at tiny little Steve (and all his ramblings about how he ‘just figured Buck took the bus to get groceries, instead of walkin’ like a madman’) until he caved and tossed the keys at him.

 

“Can’t believe you’ve been walkin’ this whole time,” Steve grumbled for the thirtieth time.

 

Bucky laughed. “What’s so hard to believe?”

 

“You could’a been mugged, Bucky!” Steve shouted at the dented car ceiling. “Or killed! Or worse!”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him, briefly taking his eyes off the road. “Worse?”

 

Steve looked down at his knees again, then at Bucky’s hand on the shift gear. Gear stick. Stick shift. _Whatever._

 

“I dunno,” He shrugged. “Just can’t imagine life without you anymore.”

 

Steve turned his whole torso to look out the window, physically tearing himself away from being anywhere near Bucky’s hand. Nervousness, want, and longing fell off of him like sighs. Bucky glanced down at where Steve rested his hand on his knee and remembered the theatre.

 

Bucky reached over quietly and took Steve’s hand gently in his own. His fingers were longer and thinner, calloused around the edges from working with a broom at the bagel shop, and from whole weekends spent sketching. Bucky ran his fingertips over the divots between knuckles.

 

He cleared his throat. “This okay?”

 

He looked over at Steve who was gaping at him. Steve nodded twice in short jerky motions, jaw snapping shut as he looked out at the road ahead of them. Bucky watched as a slow smile spread across his face, starting as just a curl, then brilliant and bright and as overwhelming as Steve himself.

 

Bucky only noticed that he matched it when his cheeks started hurting a half an hour later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve was sitting on the living room floor, sweatpants rolled up to his knees and his legs crossed. He had set up a stack of old books and a ruler to support the huge sketchpad Bucky brought home for him. He faced it with a look of focus (and maybe his tongue poking out just a little bit). The window behind him outlined his shoulders in a warm orange glow, tipping his mussed hair in fire. His bare shoulders were hunched toward the canvas like he was aching to embrace it.

 

The air hung heavy and sticky on Bucky’s skin from where he was lounging on the old sunken-in couch. He had begun slicking back his bangs that had gradually been getting longer. He kept his hair cropped shorter than the mess he used to let it grow to before Brooklyn, but today Steve had insisted he keep his hair down.

 

Like he had been summoned, Steve gingerly pushed himself off the floor and moved to crouch in front of Bucky, irritation on his face plain.

 

“What?” Bucky barely held back a grin. “Am I breathing too much?”

 

Steve just rolled his eyes. Bucky couldn’t help but think Steve would’ve found it funnier if he knew that the slow rise and fall of Bucky’s chest was a show pointedly put on for his behalf.

 

“The composition is wrong still,” Steve explained.

 

His hand hovered over Bucky’s shoulder, asking for permission. Bucky nodded and let Steve guide him so he was hunched forward with one arm bent under his head and the other hanging limply off the couch. Steve’s hands gently pressed at his hipbone, careful to stay where Bucky’s boxers covered his skin. He bent Bucky’s leg a little more, letting the top leg rest extended to where his foot draped off the arm rest.

 

When he had it just right, Steve’s eyes met Bucky’s again, jumping a little when he saw that Bucky’s gaze had never left him.

 

“You sure you’re alright modelling for me, Buck?” The bashfulness in his voice would’ve been painfully clear even without the wave of nerves that came with it. There was a hint of something else there too. “You don’t gotta sit around doing nothing all day just for me.”

 

“You sayin’ I’m not pretty enough for you, Stevie?” Bucky grinned lazily and wiggled his shoulder at Steve, delighting in the frustrated huff it got from the artist who immediately rushed to guide him back to the carefully chosen pose.

 

Steve’s thumb pressed against his collarbone, using his ring and pinky finger to tilt Bucky’s head back just a bit with resolute focus. When Steve’s eyes flicked back to Bucky’s, his already pink cheeks darkened with his scowl. That was normal enough. But something was off.

 

He paid close attention to the way Steve’s hand touched just a little more than necessary, lingered for just a second too long. He saw they way his jaw clenched and heard the way his heart sped up. This wasn’t just nerves.

 

The pulse of lust that seeped from Steve’s skin? _That_ was new.

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows and his eyes went wide with realization.

 

When Steve finished adjusting him, his blue eyes were unmistakably darker when they met Bucky’s. And the slip of pink tongue that darted out across his lower lip should not have been as captivating as it was.

 

Steve carefully, quietly brought his hand up to frame Bucky’s jaw. His thumb glided over the swell of Bucky’s lower lip, tugging it down just enough to make him relax. Steve swallowed, staring a little too hard at Bucky’s mouth, but Bucky just watched him. He could feel the rapidfire thoughts flooding Steve’s head as clearly as if they were his own.

 

_\--only hand holding, nothing special, want to kiss, want, want, need, so soft, beautiful, want--should be satisfied, should be enough--no, not enough, want--_

 

Bucky knew full well that Steve had a copy of his shiny brand new driver's license taped to his canvas for reference--that the pretense for Steve dragging his fingers through Bucky’s hair and arranging it just so was flimsy at best. Still, he leaned into the touch.

 

It was a sinking realization when Bucky found himself wishing that Steve would just make the plunge and close the gap between them. One that shook him out of the sleepy reverie hard enough that he saw Steve as he hadn’t for some time--as a human. As different. As someone who would grow old and die without any regard for the eternity Bucky would have without him.

 

And yet, Steve’s lips hovered a few inches away from his with blown pupils practically begging him to take the bait and oh how Bucky wanted. As quickly as he felt the surge of energy that made his eyes glow with feeling, he scrunched his eyes closed. Steve’s pained sigh did not escape his keen hearing and it took more willpower not to follow Steve’s touch as it lifted away.

 

When he opened his eyes again Steve was curling back into his spot in front of his canvas, far too far away.  

 

Bucky remembered only as an afterthought to keep his chest rising and falling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky fell asleep like that on the couch, waking only when Steve’s shadow moved across the room. He sat up, groggy, and watched Steve close the window curtain for the night. Pale moonlight still shone through the thin fabric weakly, but enough for Steve to notice his waking.

 

“You snore, y’know that?” He said with a grin.

 

Bucky most certainly did not. He didn’t even breathe. But he grinned back all the same. “Yeah? Did it inspire you?”

 

Steve snorted and gestured at the canvas broadly. “See for yourself.”

 

Bucky stretched the soreness out of his essence and rolled his neck before he stepped onto the balls of his feet--rocking back and forth for a moment--and moved quietly across the room so he could see Steve’s work. Sure enough, his own visage stared back at him from where he was dramatically draped on the couch. Bucky’s eyes narrowed and he bent down to pick the canvas up.

 

His eyes--painted Bucky’s, that is--were glowing. It was a soft light blue and Steve reflected the light in a spray of dust particles, on the bridge of Bucky’s nose, and dusting lightly across the crest of his cheekbones. The Bucky that stared him down from the flat of the canvas was fiercely, proudly fae. The real Bucky opened and closed his mouth helplessly, at a loss for words. He looked at Steve, who was grinning.

 

It was all Bucky could do not to kiss him right then and there. _He knew_ , the thought screamed louder than the affection Steve’s mind radiated. _He knows and he still--_

 

“Well? What do you think?” Steve asked, the all too human sparkle in his eyes alight. “Think you know that guy?”

 

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, yeah I’d say so. Jesus, Stevie.”

 

Steve shrugged, one hand reaching back behind his head to scratch the back of his neck. “I know the eyes are a dramatic touch, but--”

 

“The eyes?” Bucky interrupted. “You didn’t…?”

 

Steve blinked at him, head tilted in confusion for a moment before he laughed. “Artistic license, Buck. Your eyes are nice and all, but they don’t _actually_ glow.”

 

The hope that had risen in his chest plummeted back down to Earth. Bucky couldn’t pass the canvas to Steve fast enough, retaining enough control to give him his best cheesy grin and choking out something complimentary over his shoulder as he walked to the bathroom. Steve looked a little confused, but Bucky shut the door behind him before those stupid blue hang-dog eyes could still him.

  
He didn’t bother to turn on the light. He sat there in pitch darkness, meditating until the soft blue glow coming from his face surrendered the air around him to the black.


	3. Brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a draft, a pile of rejections, a realization, a dangerous exchange, dancing, and a close call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I did it again. This was supposed to be just the first half of the chapter. But, the good news is that I think I can get us back on track in 5, with maybe an epilogue. So i'm just giving you a heads up now that the full total may be 6, but I'm still aiming for 5. Now that I'm on break, it should be easy enough to wrap up!

* * *

 

 

It blindsided him when he received it. He had to actually look up how it was possible at all--he hadn’t remembered interacting with humans outside of Steve for any longer than five minutes. He didn’t have a bank account, either. Some of the guys at the docks would grumble about that being ‘how they get ya’ and while Bucky had no idea who ‘they’ was or what being gotten consisted of, he assumed avoiding the whole thing altogether would be wise.

 

Regardless, the draft letter sat in his and Steve’s shared mailbox with black stamped lettering clearly reading _James Buchanan Barnes,_ as if the name wasn’t made up.

 

It wasn’t like the concept itself was foreign. Bucky heard things about the war from the radio at the docks, or from Steve’s rants. Bucky had survived a war before. He understood quite well what war meant and had no particular desire to relive it. As far as he was aware, it was just humans versus humans. One group would win eventually, and it may not be Steve’s favourite, but neither side was trying to wipe out the species. Steve would ultimately be safe and so it was really none of Bucky’s concern.

 

He was tempted to throw the letter away. The big plastic trash bin at the end of the lobby hall looked promisingly full--like he could slip the letter in under something else and no one would be the wiser.

 

Bucky paused. Would they come for him? The guys at the docks would gossip about deserters, or ‘draft dodgers’. Lenny’s cousin had tried to ignore it and had agents show up at his doorstep. Something something charges of treason (Steve would always huff at this and insist that ‘conscientious abstention was an option to all Americans!’), and now Lenny’s cousin was doing ‘hard time’ in ‘jail.’

 

He’d looked up images of jails in the local library out of curiosity. He’d known humans could be cruel. Deep in the core of his essence he still remembered what they did. But still the sight of the iron bars holding starving men in tiny cages gave him nightmares. The fellow humans they kept in captivity rotted--a _ctually rotted-_ -in there. He could not imagine the pain it would bring one of the fae.

 

And that was assuming, of course, that Bucky had any intention whatsoever of cooperating upon arrest. Which he absolutely did not. But even if he doubted the ability of modern day humans (who didn’t even _believe_ in fae, for fucks sake) to manage to restrain one of the fae, he did not savor the idea of letting anyone know he existed. Magical community or otherwise.

 

He could hear Steve’s footsteps behind him, sharp on the smoothed out cement. Bucky swallowed. He tucked the letter itself back in its envelope and folded it in half before sticking it in his back pocket. He’d figure something out.

 

“Anything?” Steve asked, very obviously trying to hide being out of breath.

 

Bucky shook his head and grinned. “What, you got a pen pal or something?”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “You know damn well I don’t. Aside from you, don’t think I talk to much anyone else.”

 

Bucky feigned illness in response, gagging dramatically as Steve tried to catch up to him on the stairs. He liked to push Steve a little harder when he was feeling better. Whatever muscle he managed to gain would keep him stronger the next time sickness inevitably hit. He kept a keen ear focused on the wheeze in Steve’s breathing, careful to slow down enough to be caught when it started getting too loud.

 

Even with the wheeze, Steve was laughing as he shoved at Bucky’s elbow when he reached him at the top of the staircase. He swung one arm up against the wall, sliding towards it until he had slumped against it completely, shoulder pressed up uncomfortably to prop him up at a near forty-five degree angle. His cheeks were flushed and harsh breaths came out in short, uneven bursts. He just barely covered his mouth before the first coughing fit.

 

Bucky moved towards him, but Steve waved him off with a free hand. He watched helplessly as the coughing got worse and worse, eventually knocking Steve onto the ground completely. When Steve finally managed to take a deep, steady (if shaky) breath and look up at Bucky, the fae could see tears budding at the corners of his eyes.

 

The wheezing was no worse than before and he would make it through it.

 

Bucky knew that.

 

He _knew_ that.

 

But the letter in his back pocket felt particularly heavy and maybe letting his own energy reach out and seep into Steve’s skin was just a way to keep it from shining through his eyes in worry. The wheezing cleared away from Steve’s lung’s slowly, and the man coughed deeply another few times. Bucky stayed with him, a hand around his narrow shoulder under the pretense of support.

 

“Fuck,” Steve finally managed to get out. He coughed again a little. Bucky tried not to let the satisfaction show on his face when he could hear the difference in his lungs plain as day. “Sorry ‘bout that. Don’t know what came over me.”

 

“Asthma, probably,” Bucky replied dryly. “Have you been using your inhaler?”

 

Steve scowled. “You mean the one you stole?”

 

“From no one!” Bucky protested. “It was just sitting behind the counter, about to go to waste. Those things have an expiration date, and--”

 

“I’m not using a stolen inhaler,” Steve insisted. “Besides, how do you know it’d be the right dosage? Might be dangerous.”

 

“Yeah, cuz you’re so nervous about danger,” Bucky scoffed. “You picked a fight with Thom like two days ago, Stevie. You think I’d just forget?”

 

A slow grin spread across Steve’s face. He took Bucky’s offered hand and stood up carefully, actually putting a little bit of weight on the faerie for once. Bucky raised an eyebrow in concern.

 

“Shit, you must really be coming down with something.” Bucky moved forward to wrap his arm around Steve’s back, gently herding him towards the door of their apartment.

 

Steve fumbled with the keys a little, still red in the face and pointedly avoiding Bucky’s gaze. Embarrassment flooded the air around Steve like steam, quickly evaporating as he tried to stamp the feeling back down. Curiously, the feeling around Steve was nearly gone completely when he shot Bucky a reassuring smile as he pushed the door open.

 

“Nah, just allergies,” he insisted. Almost an afterthought, “and take your shoes off. Don’t think I didn’t see the grime you tracked up the stairs. They have you scraping the underbelly again?”

 

Bucky grumbled but toed off his shoes obediently. “Yeah, I don’t mind it so much.”

 

“You come home looking like hell,” Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “Scraping barnacles is too much for just one guy to do! They need to give you a partner, or a break, or--”

 

Bucky laughed. “Stevie, it’s fine. I requested it.”

 

Steve stopped in the middle of taking off his sweater, one arm of it dangling limply at his side. He scrunched up his nose in that way he did when he thought he was on to something. Again the letter in Bucky’s back pocket felt curiously heavy, like Steve could sniff it out from a mile off.

 

“And why’d you go and do that, Buck?” Steve’s question was casual, but his narrowed eyes were suspicious.

 

Bucky shrugged. _There’s less iron down there. The sea is comforting to be near. I like the silence away from the humans that aren’t you._ “Brings in a little bit extra. And it’s not so bad, really.”

 

He rolled up his shirt sleeve and flexed, shooting Steve his most obnoxious grin. “See? Comes with perks and everything.”

 

Truthfully, he was proud of his newly gained muscles, but mostly because it had taken some seriously delicate shifting over the course of four months to make sure the growth wasn’t too fast. It had been an experiment at first, but Steve had looked at him with a little darkness in his eyes too wicked to be his normal flavor of mischief and Bucky was hooked.

 

Similar to how he now got to enjoy the tense bob of Steve’s Adam’s apple against the long pale stretch of his throat. Steve shook his head in a way Bucky was positive the man thought was subtle and grinned as he actually finished tugging his sweater off.

 

“Yeah, yeah, like you need any more help gettin’ all the dames,” Steve teased.

 

There was some bitterness in the statement. A test, Bucky thought, watching as Steve would flick his eyes hopefully over his shoulder at the fae as if the answer he was looking for could appear at any moment. But Bucky heard the rattle in Steve’s lungs returning from beyond where his magic had banished it and saw the tiredness in Steve’s movements. He was mortal. So painfully mortal.

 

And like every single time he dangled the bait in front of Steve, he yanked it back before anything could come of it.

 

“Well, you know you gotta actually talk to them, right?” Bucky pretended not to see the disappointment in Steve’s eyes. “You’re gunna miss all the shots you don’t take. Life’s short, and all that jazz.”

 

Steve tossed the sweater over the back of the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He moved across the living room floor, sliding on his socks against the hardwood, towards the sack of art supplies perpetually leaned against the far wall under the window. He knelt to pull out a box of charcoal Bucky had bought for him, wrapped in a blending cloth.

 

“Yeah, ‘cuz my odds are so great to begin with,” Steve grumbled under his breath.

 

“Heard that,” Bucky said, just to be petty.

 

He was rifling through the drawers in the kitchen, pretending to look for cooking utensils and to get started on dinner, but the letter in his pocket was still glaring at him from the front of his mind. He needed to find a hiding spot for it. Somewhere he could come back to it later and figure out what the fuck he was going to do about it.

 

He twirled one of their sharper knives in the palm of his hand and wondered if faking his own death would freak Steve out too badly. He glanced over at the other man who had already started sketching him. There was a softness in his eyes as he did so that spoke volumes more than the affection that flooded the room like warm sunlight. Bucky swallowed and put the knife back in the drawer and ducked away into their bedroom.

 

The stepping stool was usually hidden away in the closet under their mound of unfolded laundry, so Bucky wasted no time in flinging pants, shirts, ties and socks over his shoulder to try and clear the mess away faster. He saw the leg of the stool poking out from under their one spare set of linens and pushed past more boxes of art supplies and a couple stacks of sci-fi novellas to get closer.

 

He thought about maybe hiding the envelope between the pages of one of his most recent finds, but something crinkled and interrupted his thought process.

 

Bucky shifted his weight experimentally. The floor beneath his feet crinkled again. He carefully stepped back and cleared away a truly horrendous holiday sweater to look at the yellow stack of papers that had been tucked into the corner. Steve’s name was printed across the top.

 

Well, Steven Rodriguez. A failed application to join the military due to _scoliosis, asthma, and ‘poor performance’._

 

The paper beneath it listed Steve Robinson. _Failed due to asthma._

 

Then Steve Rollings. _Failed_.

 

Steve Roman. _Failed_.

 

Steve Robberts. _Failed_.

 

Steve Roth. _Failed_.

 

Steve. Steve. Steve. _All failed._

 

The last one, Bucky held up to the dim light incredulously, like the paper was lying to him. _Steven Grant Rogers_ , the actual real deal written across the top of the page like an announcement. A giant red F had been stamped in the middle. This one had papers attached to it--medical records, doctor’s notes, medical articles Steve had found and saved that argued on behalf of letting soldiers with asthma fight the war. There was even a resume with proof of his high school graduation. He’d listed “intelligence branch, if not infantry” under his ‘goals’.

 

“Hey, Buck, you alright?” Steve’s voice was getting closer. “You’ve been back here for a while now and--”

 

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice was low and controlled. “What the hell are these?”

 

He held the last paper packet out in front of Steve and watched in horror as the man shrunk in on himself guiltily. So it wasn’t some sort of sick joke.

 

“You’ve been applying?” Bucky had to actually take a few seconds to steady himself before he spoke. “You wanna be _infantry?_ ”

 

“I--”

 

“Are you fucking with me, Steve?” Bucky waved the paper harsh enough to make it crinkle again. “When were you planning on telling me?”

 

Steve’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

 

“Were you going to tell me?” Bucky’s voice got quieter.

 

He looked at the paper again. At the long list of medical inadequacies trailing over onto the backside. At the end of the list “this was all that was diagnosed” was scribbled in some doctor’s terrible handwriting.

 

Panic struck through Bucky’s chest as his eyes scanned over the full thing. Steve had tried to run an entire mile. He’d tried to do fifty jumping jacks in one go. He’d tried to hold his breath for longer than a minute.

 

“I was gunna tell you, Buck, I swear--”

 

“You’re gunna get yourself _killed_ ,” Bucky breathed. “You’re gunna get yourself fucking killed. Or arrested. Or--”

 

“Aw, c’mon they’re not looking to arrest people for applying--”

 

Bucky cut him off again by swooping down and picking up an armful of the other hundreds of Steve’s papers and throwing them at the real one. He regretted it seconds after and tried to snatch some of them out of the air.

 

“Wait, when did you start applying? How long have you been at this?” Bucky scrambled to look at the scattered papers faster than Steve could pick them up. There was one from last July. Two from July. One from May. Another from April. February. January--

 

“ _A year?_ ” Bucky’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve been trying to get into the army for _a year._ ”

 

He was thankful for the floodlight in the closet then and thankful for the harsh blue light because he was certain he couldn’t have stopped the faint glow in his eyes no matter how much he concentrated. He could feel the wrongness of this in every ounce of himself, in every fiber. The thought of Steve armed, uniformed, and marching into the war. Memories he had carefully suppressed in the back of his mind played despite his efforts. He saw the carcasses of the humans they’d beaten. He saw them with Steve’s face. That stupid stubborn set of his jaw, the corpse’s eyes still holding no remorse, not feeling the fear he should have felt the day news of the war broke.

 

Steve was crouched in front of him, curled in on himself with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked guiltier than Bucky had ever seen him. His lips were pressed into a thin line and the light from the closet painted the divots under his cheekbones more hollow than normal. He looked starved. Bucky wanted to wrap him up in more magical energy, wanted to throttle him until he got his fill of fighting, wanted to take him in his arms and fly back to the lean-to he’d abandoned off the coast of Greenland. He wanted to hold Steve’s face in his hands and scream at him until he understood why he couldn’t do this.

 

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve said, but he didn’t look at Bucky fully. Bucky watched as his jaw clenched once, twice, three times. Watched the gears turn in his head as he carefully picked his words. He felt the guilt, but there was anger there too. That goddamn inexcusable brand of anger that made Steve Rogers do stupid shit. “But I’m not gunna stop.”

 

“Steve--”

 

“No, listen, alright?” Steve held up a hand and Bucky found himself silent. He didn’t want to cooperate. He just didn’t have the right words yet and frankly was starting to see a little red-- “This isn’t just some street fight. This is different. The shit they’re doing over there…”

 

Steve gritted his teeth and finally met Bucky’s eyes with that fierce stubbornness Bucky loved so much.

 

The fire in Bucky’s gut got doused cold. _Loved_ . He _loved_ Steve’s stubbornness. He loved the set of his jaw, loved watching his lips form around stern words that Bucky couldn’t quite hear through the sirens wailing in his own head. Steve was blurry in front of him and a little too blue. Bucky brought his hands up to cover his face and eyes in a rush, feeling energy humming at the back of his throat loudly, way too loudly.

 

He _loved_ Steve.

 

 _Fuck_ , he loved _Steve_.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut hard and leaned forward on his elbows. The pile of laundry was soft under his weight and entirely too much to handle. He could feel each individual thread, could taste the colour of the items without seeing them, and still Steve’s voice was ringing in his ears like an echo.

 

“-ight? Bucky? Hey! _Buck!_ ”

 

Steve’s hands were on his shoulders and god Bucky could feel the heat from them on his back like they were scalding. He jerked away from the touch, reeling backwards and forcing himself to focus. He took a deep breath that he didn’t need maybe if only to goad Steve a bit more. When he finally opened his eyes, Steve looked like a wreck.

 

“Buck, cmon,” Steve pleaded. “It’s the right thing to do. They’re killing millions over there. Slaughtering them.”

 

Images from the war flickered to the front of his mind like a bad picture show. He saw the shards of cold iron embedded in tree trunks. He saw fields of human soldiers that had been skinned and boiled alive. He _saw--_

 

“There’s concentration camps. They’re sending them to concentration camps and just fucking murdering them.” Steve’s voice was tight with emotion and he paused to rub at his eyes furiously. Bucky thought distantly that he looked an awful lot like one of his old friends did after hearing about the death of his family. “There’s gas chambers and firing squads and…”

 

Steve scrambled around behind him to dig through some of the newspapers they left lying around. “There was an article in here, talking about a resistance branch in Denmark that almost got caught, Buck. They had to hide the Jewish folks they were smuggling in a secret fucking compartment like some kind of cargo. People, Buck. My people.”

 

Bucky searched Steve’s face and found no trace of compromise. Even with the panic that filled his lungs, Steve wouldn’t budge. Black and white images flashed rapidly through Steve’s mind of the faces of fallen soldiers, of news reports, of piles of human bodies Bucky had once seen in full colour.

 

“You can’t ask me to just…” Steve spread his arms and shrugged his shoulders, grasping for the right words. “You can’t ask me to not want to protect them. You can’t.”

 

There he was, blue eyes shining proudly against his own goddamn fear of losing Bucky--not fear for his own life, fear of injury, fear of dying bloody and broken; no, fear that _Bucky would be mad at him_.

 

The energy left Bucky in a swift sigh and all of his fight left with it. He watched as Steve’s face softened, hope shining out of the very corners of his soul and Bucky felt it keenly. He closed his eyes.

 

He loved Steve. This Steve. The one that fought to protect. The one that was ready to throw everything away if he could save someone. He loved that. Even if there wasn’t a goddamn soul on this planet that could ever be worth Steve’s. He loved him.

 

Steve shuffled closer and Bucky’s first instinct was to reach out and make sure he didn’t fall over. Bracketed in Bucky’s support, Steve just fell limply into Bucky’s open arms.

 

“I messed up, Buck.” He sounded hoarse. “I’m sorry I hid it from you. But I’m not sorry I did it. You gotta understand.”

 

Bucky ran his hand gently over the ridges of Steve’s spine. He couldn’t fathom how Steve could be willing to throw everything away to protect people he’d never met. Steve Rogers had to be the only human capable of loving a stranger so fiercely as to want to die for them. Bucky tucked his nose into the crook of Steve’s neck like he had so many years ago when Steve first hugged him and still smelled the same peppermint oil Steve liked to keep around.

 

“Buck,” Steve tried again, hands clawing little half-moon circles into Bucky’s back.

 

Bucky rested against him. “Yeah, Stevie?”

 

“Do you…” Steve’s breaths in were shaky. “Are we okay?”

 

Bucky swallowed sharply. He wanted to say no. Wanted to say that he didn’t understand Steve’s want. Wanted badly to forget what his forest looked like when it was torn through like old fabric while the magical community turned a blind eye. He knew damn well what hopeless looked like.

 

He wished he could lie.

 

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky said thickly. “We’re okay. There’s nothin’ that could change that.”

 

“It’s the right thing to do,” Steve mumbled. “I have to--”

 

“I get it Stevie.” Bucky held onto him harder, willing him to just _shut up_. “I hate that I get it, but I do.”

 

Steve fell quiet again, his breath slowly evening out. Bucky was grateful for the way Steve tucked his face against Bucky’s chest--unable to see the glow in Bucky’s eyes that had run away from him. Behind them, the floodlight looked weak in comparison.

 

“Promise me you’re not gunna get yourself killed, Steve.” Bucky shook him gently as he spoke. “Please. You gotta promise me.”

 

Steve stayed silent.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky’s mother always told him that it started, as most things do, with a misunderstanding.

 

When humans grew desperate, their prayers to the earth and sky became loud and frantic things. Well, not prayer, per se. That was the closest approximation. A silent plea that overflowed the boundaries of a human mind, unique in its solitary nature. For all that humans could blast their thoughts, they remained deaf to any of their peers. They shared no link, no invisible tie that let them dip their fingers into the thoughts of their loved ones.

 

Surely, the fae had thought, they still meant to be heard. And the people suffering were loudest of all. The woods and creeks were not enough to cover their anguish. Being naturally curious, the fae drew closer. They yearned to reach out to make contact with humanity--to ask them why they screamed in the same way one would ask a crying toddler.

 

Beings of all sorts murmured their discontent at the fae’s circling. Loudest of all were the angels that had taken to humans long prior. They warned the fae that humans could be fickle, ruthless things. That humans would take, and take, and take, and think nothing of giving in return. Their lives were short, the angels warned, but densely packed, like someone uttering as many confessions as possible before death’s grip got the better of them. They wrecked the environment around them in their survival, ripping down forests that had been home to magical creatures for centuries without a second thought.

 

The centaurs received the brunt of it, being hunted out of their native lands, or ‘tamed’ and brought into human civilization like a prize. Then came the dragons. Unaware or uncaring, humans would make their settlements across wide plains protected by the ancient beasts. As soon as their livestock began to disappear, the humans would take up pitchforks, torches, and swords to raid the dragon’s den. They would slaughter the beast, smash its eggs, steal its hoard and whittle its bones into grotesque armor.

 

Among the humans were knights--men whose job it was to seek these creatures out and bring back their heads. Stories of massacre were whispered amongst the magical community.

 

 _Stay hidden. It will only get worse if they know more_ , the angels had warned. _We have come to know the humans. They cannot be made to understand._

 

Despite the horrors the angels claimed lurked beneath the surface of humanity, their civilizations created truly incredible things. They built ships that could out-pace a siren on the stormy seas, taught the water in their rivers to push their mills, and carved palaces out of stone. For the creatures that left a good impression, some humans would build shrines. Bowls of milk and honey were left on windowsills like altars as their thoughts rang loud and clear on images of full healthy crops, bouncing babies, or love so sweet and pure it hurt.

 

The fae fall in love with the humans, slowly mingled with them, and hid amongst their people to learn their songs and languages--to teach them how to weave, how to start fire, and how to dance. The humans keep taking, and taking, and they ignored the warnings of the fae. They stopped leaving offerings, stopped sharing their songs, and begin to fight each other. One day, they burn down a whole forest of their enemies to lay siege to their lands, and in the process kill hundreds of fae unknowingly.

 

Instead of recognizing the faces of the fellow villagers they’d come to love as their own, they saw them as tricksters. The humans called them demons, and presumed that they had been spying on them for centuries at the behest of their foes. The fae had tried to explain and were burned alive for their efforts. The humans that loved the fae burned with them.

 

Things escalated.

 

In the end, human ingenuity won the war. Humans did what they do best: they survived.

 

Reconciling this vicious need to survive with Steve and his stupid desire to fight was difficult. Reconciling the vicious ingenious weaponry as belonging to the same species as the woman who lived under the Brooklyn Bridge felt impossible.

 

She had a name, it turned out. Katherine Short. She was sixty-three years old, and she’d been homeless since her teenage years. Bucky hadn’t actually _asked_ for any of this information, but she felt perfectly comfortable divulging it nonetheless. He sat there silently as she babbled on about how she knew he wasn’t a real angel since angels had tails.

 

“Still got pretty wings, though,” she assured him, snapping her chewing gum loudly.

 

Bucky said nothing. The waterline was calmer than usual, and the surface reflected the moonlight in long lines that broke and shivered against the current, reforming and breaking at will. It reminded him of the humans he’d seen in Brooklyn. Watching the dock workers grow closer as a team, punching each other playfully on the shoulder or throwing well-aimed jokes to make each other smile had been like living in one of those documentaries Steve was always wanting to watch. He hadn’t participated personally, but he tested out his field data on his very own captive audience.

 

For the most part it worked.

 

His head rested against the concrete underpass, iron echoing painfully through his whole body in ripples. He’d wanted to feel it. Wanted to know exactly what he was signing up for if he showed up to his recruitment interview. He shifted where he sat (slowly, so as not to startle Katherine) and fished out the envelope from his back pocket to look at it again.

 

“You got family?” Katherine asked. Bucky looked up at her.

 

She nodded knowingly as if he’d responded. “Mmhmm. Friends?”

 

Bucky thought of Steve. He thought of the people Steve protected. He thought of the people that were dying overseas at the hands of the same philosophies that had killed everyone he knew. He gritted his teeth.

 

“Ahh. A sweetheart, then?”

 

“No.”

 

Bucky wasn’t sure why he spoke up then, but it apparently startled Katherine enough to get her pushing her stolen grocery cart further down the beach away from him. She shot wild glances over her shoulders and meticulously counted through her possessions again.

 

She, like the other humans, wanted to survive.

 

When the pixies arrived, Bucky still had the envelope in his hand. One tried to tug it away from him only to get batted a few feet through the air. Another made a dive for his pockets and Bucky irritably let a small wave of energy pulse off his skin to knock the whole swarm back a few feet. They hummed angrily and hovered in place, waiting for him to give them something to barter.

 

He fished in his jacket pocket for the lock of hair he’d tied up neatly with a leather string, and his fingers paused over an empty glass vial. He tugged that out instead and stared at it, feeling its weight against his palm.

 

If he was really going to do this, Steve was going to be alone. Maybe for years.

 

He pursed his lips and fished in his jeans pockets for his Swiss Army knife, slicing the flat of his palm open before he could change his mind. He clenched his fist and held his hand at an angle that allowed the blood to drip in without spilling. The pixies hovered in closer, humming growing louder, more predatory.

 

They pushed in like a hungry rip tide, testing to see how close they could get before the fae’s eyes would flash and he’d snarl from low within his chest.

 

When the vial was half full, he unclenched his fist and shook off his hand. A few stray droplets of blood hit the sand and two of the pixies dove for it. The one that got there first barely got its claws damp in the stuff before the second caught up and tore into its gossamer wings with sharp talons. The first pixie screamed in pain, writhing on the ground to try and fight back, but the other bit into its throat before it could throw any effective hits. The cries silenced quickly under the heavy gaze of the swarm.

 

Bucky watched as the triumphant pixie devoured the drop of blood--sand and all--from underneath its fallen brother. It turned to give Bucky a sharp look. Its eyes were glazed over, a hazy grey-blue the same shade as Bucky’s. The pigment seeped into its tiny frame and tore through it with enough power to make the tiny beast shudder. It clawed at its own skin, stuffing bloody claws back in its mouth like it hoped to replace the blood it drew from itself. Its hum broke and shivered against Bucky’s ears, getting higher in pitch and more frantic, its wings beat irregularly and twisted. The tips grew longer, spiked out like feathers, then receded in a way that looked painful. It fell over the pixie corpse next to it, and coughed something horrible. Its hum started dropping in pitch, lower and lower, until it sounded like a growl.

 

The swarm that had stayed near Bucky now edged away from him noticeably. All eyes were on the still wriggling pixie as it threw handfuls of sand at nothing in particular. A wild look touched just under its eyelids and its chest heaved. It was expanding. The screech it let out was almost too high pitched to hear, but the horrid ripping noise from its ribcage as it cracked open was unfortunately audible.

 

Bucky winced. He carefully wiped his hand on his shirt and looked at the vial he still held.

 

 _This is a mistake_ , the small voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Steve told him. _That was just a drop. A vial is too much. Too easy to abuse. It’s not right--_

 

“How much can you get me for it?” Bucky ignored the voice as easily as he ignored Steve.

 

The swarm moved around him like a rain cloud, with tendrils of pixie formations breaking off and rejoining at random. It seemed to think for a moment before projecting the image into his mind.

 

Bucky swallowed thickly. That would take care of food and rent for two years at least.

 

Longer, if it was just one guy being fed. And a little one, at that.

 

If Bucky was going to do this, if he was really going to let himself get caught up in Steve’s war, then he wasn’t going to leave Steve defenseless. It was hardly his problem if some kelpie overdosed on something it couldn’t possibly understand.

 

He gritted his teeth, ignoring the protests of the Steve voice in the back of his head and held out the vial to the pixie swarm with the lock of hair. They hesitated before swooping forward to take it. They treated the vial with caution, like they were worried it might bite.

 

A fair assumption, Bucky thought.

 

He sat back down on the ground and let his head fall back against the wall when they darted off, watching them fly across the water under half-lidded eyes. Katherine had wandered close again, curiosity shining in her eyes.

 

“You got any change for the bus?” she asked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Bucky, this is stupid,” Steve said again. As if Bucky hadn’t heard him the first time. And just like the first time, Bucky flat out ignored it. The brand new record player looked wildly out of place in their living room, but he kind of liked the weight it gave the room. The foam cover on the needle slid off easily and Bucky ran the tip of his finger over the sharp point. 

 

“Did you even buy any records?” Steve whined. Bucky pulled one out of the paper bag next to him and waggled it over his shoulder in response. Steve groaned.

 

“How’d you learn to dance anyway?” Steve accused. “You spend a lot’a time at finishing school, Buck?”

 

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, definitely. Know all about the hundreds of forks and everything.”

 

Steve snickered. “Bet you charmed the whole class.”

 

Bucky stood up and brushed off the front of his slacks half-heartedly. He tapped the record player needle down gently with the toe of his shoe until it just touched the spinning disk. Static burbled into the air, filling the empty apartment walls with a colour Bucky hadn’t really known they were missing.

 

It was loud and full of brass instruments, but the melody held a surprisingly lively rhythm as a woman’s voice warbled out of the plastic cone like she was right there in the living room with them.

 

“Well,” Bucky made a big show of sighing, dramatically holding his hand out for Steve to take. “I know it isn’t a live band or nothin’ fancy, but. Steve Rogers, will you do me the honour of giving me your first dance?”

 

Steve, who had turned an interesting shade of maroon, gaped at him. “Oh my _god_.”

 

Bucky laughed. “What?”

 

“Are you going to make a _thing_ out of this? You said you wouldn’t embarrass me--”

 

“We are alone in our own damn apartment.” Bucky gestured around him broadly. “Exactly who’s watching you, Stevie?”

 

“You are,” Steve said without hesitation.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Good thing I already think you’re a dumb punk. Now c’mon. I’m gunna teach you some moves.”

 

Steve reluctantly reached out to slip his hand into Bucky’s. The second he made contact, Bucky gripped tight and pulled him in close. His other hand found Steve’s waist and held him steady. Looking down at their feet, he moved one foot backwards and pulled Steve forward gently to follow him.

 

“You’re gunna want to match me, y’know?” Bucky said quietly.

 

Steve took a step and replaced the space where Bucky’s left foot had been with his own right. Bucky caught the bounce of blond hair as Steve glanced up at his dance partner nervously and pretended not to notice. Steve’s skin was practically buzzing with everything he was feeling. It felt like a live wire and it slipped through the cracks in Bucky’s composure, leaving him feeling like he was drunk on honey.

 

They took another two steps.

 

“Like this?” Steve’s voice was quiet in the way it got when he felt insecure. He wanted to learn this.

 

Bucky risked a glance at him and got trapped, staring at the way Steve bit his lip in concentration. He nearly didn’t catch himself in time before telling Steve that this was usually the part where the leading dance partner would begin to step up into the air, ascending to join the rest of the dancing fae in an upward spiral. Nearly didn’t catch himself in time to firmly plant his feet on the ground.

 

Steve made him forget sometimes that he wasn’t already floating.

 

“Yeah, Stevie. Like that.” Bucky grinned. He pushed against Steve’s palm to keep him from following after his steps and gently guided him into a spin. “Little bit faster now, alright?”

 

Steve’s eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky pulled him close against his chest and picked up the rhythm to actually match the song. The bass line beat out loud and vibrated against the floorboards in the way that low notes could tickle your spine. Bucky felt the pressure of the song moving his legs for him, stepping in circles around their living room like it could hold a candle to the Winter Court.

 

He imagined the silken dresses and tunics with their detailed embroidery of runes and good luck charms sewn into the hems. The smell of incense was still sharp in his memory and he could taste the tang of smoke like he had never left the side of the bonfire. He remembered dancing for days, celebrating the won battles against the humans, recognizing the defeat of a troop of their employed angels as the impossibility it was.

 

But the fae were good with that. Impossibility, that is.

 

When Bucky let his eyes open again to check on Steve, he found the other man staring up at him with something just shy of adoration written across his features. He let out a soft ‘tch’ and looked away, tucking his chin into his shoulder as he looked down at his feet, but Bucky was too wrapped up in the moment to let it slide. He moved the hand from Steve’s waist, aware that they stilled in the middle of the song, to tip Steve’s chin up again.

 

Like he was the one adjusting Steve as an art model, Bucky relished the way Steve let himself be guided--the way his eyes met Bucky’s stubbornly, daring him to make his move. The blush dusting the tips of his cheekbones made the freckles on his nose stand out sharper and when his tongue darted out across his lower lip, Bucky nearly lost that last shred of self control.

 

“What’re you looking at?” Steve breathed. His voice didn’t shake, but Bucky could feel the nervousness bouncing off the sound in the room and returning home to ache in the spot just above his gut. It tickled.

 

“Uh,” Bucky cleared his throat. “Nothing. I was just…”

 

He brushed his thumb along Steve’s jawline, tracing the soft skin like it was actually liable to break if he pressed too hard. Steve’s eyes fell on Bucky’s own lips and Bucky’s response was lost in the jumble of thoughts that pushed through Steve’s mind to his own.

 

“Yeah, I was just…” Bucky trailed off.

 

Steve’s eyes flicked up to his again, a glimmer of hope shining too brightly for Bucky to dismiss as anything else.

 

“You were just…?” Steve prompted.

 

Bucky nodded. The music slowed to a stop, static creeping back into the air around them, waiting to be filled with something more colourful. Bucky couldn’t tear himself away. He took a hesitant step closer and Steve’s heartbeat pulsed rapidly under his touch.

 

“Could I--” Bucky cut himself off. He swallowed again.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. This might be it. Might be the last chance he got. He knew that. Steve didn’t, but it was true nonetheless. He opened his eyes and pushed his hand around Steve’s neck to tilt his head up just enough.

 

“Would it be alright if I…?” Bucky stammered.

 

As always, Steve came to the rescue. He stared in a way that made him look hungry, bit into his lower lip and barely breathed the word, but Bucky caught it.

 

“Yes,” Steve looked feverish. “ _Please_.”

 

He didn’t wait to think on it. Just leaned forward to gently press his lips to Steve’s. They were soft, plush against his own. Steve leaned into him like he was falling again and Bucky’s hand wrapped around his waist to catch him.

 

Some small part of him was still terrified that it would somehow give him away. That it would somehow give Steve access to the text on the draft letter, or give him access the images of the glass vial he was sure was flashing vividly in his mind. Something so strongly projected that if Steve’s mind would just reach out and touch, the link between them could for once be more than one-sided.

 

But Steve was human, so endearingly human, and he melted under Bucky’s touch like he was built for it. This, Bucky thought as Steve's breath came out shaky against his cheek, this was worth protecting.

 

Steve's eyes were still closed, eyebrows tilted upwards and lips just slightly parted when Bucky finally pulled away. Hope and bliss fell off his touch softly, contrasting with the way his hand gripped Bucky's hip tightly.

 

Bucky noticed the blue glow a fraction of a second before Steve opened his eyes and rapidly brought his hands up to cover his face.

 

“Buck…?” Steve's voice was gentle and one of those hands tugged at Bucky's wrist, trying to see what Bucky was hiding.

 

Bucky let out a strangled noise and darted to their bathroom before Steve could ask, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning against it. A grin split across his face so wide it hurt and when he let himself open his eyes in the solitude, the whole room was lit up so bright he considered stuffing a towel under the crack in the door, lest he manage to give himself away from behind solid walls.

 

“Hey, Bucky?” Steve's voice was weak through the door and he tapped on the wood three times. “Are you okay?”

 

He sounded hurt. Bucky realized in horror that he'd more or less sprinted away. He stared at himself in the mirror, blue light falling from his eyes in a way he couldn't stop, just like the grin seemed to be a permanent fixture. He even saw a few feathers falling from the wings he kept tucked away, invisible. The glamour was weakest when he was emotionally compromised.  

 

Yeah, there was no way he could get that under control quickly enough.

 

Bucky wanted to laugh. He gently touched his own lips where Steve's had been pressed just moments before and wracked his brain for stuff humans did. He remembered some of the girls he'd danced with and how they would hide their faces in their hands, complaining that Bucky was making them blush.

 

“Blushing,” Bucky blurted, grinning even as he said it.

 

“...What?”

 

Bucky did laugh then. “I'm blushing, Steve.”

 

The voice on the other side of the door went silent and panic shot through Bucky. It was blushing, wasn't it? Was that not an acceptable reason to--

 

“Are you kidding?” Steve laughed as he spoke and Bucky rested his head against the door in relief. “One kiss and you're blushing?”

 

“What can I say, Stevie?” Bucky wouldn't have stopped grinning under threat of death. Couldn't have, really. “You’re a real Casanova.”

 

He could barely hear Steve grumble 'ridiculous jerk’ under his breath as he moved away from the bathroom door, but he could feel the happiness coming from Steve as it filled the whole apartment.

  
And he was terribly, selfishly glad that Steve couldn't feel the emotions of those around him, because if he could? There wouldn't have been any room for doubt about exactly the kind of magic Bucky was woven with, because right now he was sure he could wake the dead with the never ending litany of 'I love Steve’ pulsating out of him brighter than a lighthouse beam.


	4. Bucky, Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you remember that time you made me ride the Cyclone on Coney Island til I threw up?" 
> 
> "Yep."
> 
> "This wouldn't be payback for that, would it?"
> 
> "Now why would I do that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. this chapter went uh. long.
> 
> brace yourself.

He got the idea in part from when Steve mourned the anniversary of his mother’s passing with a yahrzeit candle, and in part from something he overheard on the radio at the docks. Some of the troops had found a mass grave, unmarked, the corpses all stripped of any form of identification. Mounds of jewelry and memorabilia were found in fragments next to an incinerator. Most of the gold had been melted down and solidified into bars. What was left was in shambles or unrecognizable.

 

The shop attendant at the kosher supermarket kept an eye on him, watching him move warily between the aisles like she was expecting the inevitable question. Bucky stubbornly refused to ask for help and spent a truly embarrassing amount of time looking for the candle in question. But in the end, it was only two cents more than a regular candle and hopefully volumes more meaningful to Steve.

 

The look on Steve’s face when he got home told him that he’d heard the news. There were bags under his eyes, and he did not bother to hide the four new piles of Army rejections that were splayed around him. When Bucky took the candle out of the paper bag in front of him, the corners of Steve’s lips quirked up just enough to show that the comfort was received, and he stood away from his sketchbook to go get matches.

 

Across the paper were messy charcoal lines etching the silhouettes of hills, dotted intricately with headstones. Each had a mound of flowers surrounding it so high that Bucky could tell from the detail that Steve had been at the project for hours. When Steve was standing next to him, Bucky grabbed his right hand and examined it. The callouses on his index and middle finger were splintered open, and his wrist was red from exertion. Bucky frowned and pressed his thumb into the thick of Steve’s palm, gently trying to massage away some of the tension.

 

“Be careful with yourself, Stevie,” he said quietly. Steve nodded, expression grim.

 

The verses of the prayer were barely above a whisper as they left Steve’s lips, and Bucky for once stayed silent instead of trying to speak along. He watched as Steve went through the motions and waited til he lit the candle to wrap an arm around Steve’s shoulders and tug him closer. Steve leaned into him without protest. With the candle light illuminating his face from below, Steve looked tired.

 

Bucky steadied himself and pressed comforting circles into Steve’s skin. He pursed his lips together, trying to find the right words. He felt for the draft envelope tucked into his jacket pocket and tugged on it to hand to Steve when the smaller man spoke.

 

“I knew people were dying over there.” Steve’s voice was quiet. Bucky let go of the envelope and listened. “Y’know? I knew about it but…”

 

“Made it more real?” Bucky guessed.

 

“Yeah.” Steve frowned. “No. Well…”

 

Bucky waited patiently.

 

“They must have been so scared.” Steve tucked himself into Bucky’s hold further like he did when he was cold. “The ones that died… And the ones that found them. I can’t even imagine. Some of them weren’t even there by choice, y’know?”

 

Steve looked up at him for affirmation. Bucky nodded slightly, watching him intently. He could see the reflection of candlelight in the tears dotting the corners of Steve’s eyes. He watched Steve shut his eyes and furrow his eyebrows in an attempt to swallow down the reaction.

 

“Can’t imagine. Being at home, then all of a sudden your own government plucks you out of nowhere and tosses you overseas to go find… that.” The bile Steve poured into the last word was so strong the room vibrated with it. “It’s wrong. The whole thing is just wrong.”

 

“I take it you’re still gonna keep trying to enlist.” Bucky motioned at the rejection papers with his chin. Steve shot him a glare. Bucky held his free hand up defensively. “Nah, not going to stop you.”

 

Steve stared at him for a long time, caught somewhere between suspicious and wary. “Why’s that?”

 

Bucky grimaced. “Think you’re right.”

 

Steve didn’t say anything. He stared at Bucky and waited.

 

“About going overseas being the right thing, I mean.” Bucky swallowed thickly. “To fight.”

 

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Bucky met his gaze evenly. “Means I changed my mind.”

 

The blond sat up then, staring at Bucky incredulously. His blue eyes were wide in disbelief. The way he gaped at Bucky made the fae concerned that he’d maybe accidentally dropped his glamour for a second and he snuck a glance over his shoulder to make sure his wings were still tucked away neatly.

 

“Bucky, did you enlist?” Steve’s voice was low.

 

Bucky clenched his jaw and didn’t answer. Didn’t want to tell Steve that he’d been drafted. Didn’t want Steve to know that he was supposed to have reported to the recruitment center a week ago and hadn’t. Though, from the way Steve stared at him, he wasn’t sure he would be making Steve proud after all.

 

“What if I did?” Bucky returned, challengingly.

 

Steve’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. His mouth worked uselessly around words that just wouldn’t come and he pushed up to his feet. Bucky stayed sitting on the floor, watching him. Steve stared at the candle, shook his head a few times. He looked back at Bucky and that’s when the fae felt it. Fear.

 

“When?” Steve whispered. “When do you ship out?”

 

Bucky looked at the ground then. “Soon, I think.”

 

“How soon?” Steve demanded. “When did you--”

 

“In a couple days,” Bucky interrupted him. “I found out kind of suddenly. Wasn’t expecting it.”

 

Steve nodded, blinking his eyes again furiously, fists clenched at his sides in the way they did when Steve was itching to pick a fight. Bucky watched as his chest rose and fell under the exertion of trying to keep his breathing steady, and could hear the frantic pounding of his heart against his ribs. The wheezing in his lungs protested almost as loudly as the fear that rang shrill through the air.

 

“Are you mad?” Bucky asked quietly.

 

Steve looked at him then, shock again on his features. “No! No, god no Bucky. I’m not a hypocrite. I’m just… surprised, s’all.”

 

Bucky nodded and said nothing.

 

The smile Steve put on could not have been more forced and Bucky could feel the fire in the pit of Steve’s gut when he spoke again.

 

“Proud of you, Buck. For doing the right thing.”

 

He was lying.

 

Bucky felt it in colours and sounds, all hissing to the contrary of the words that came out of Steve’s mouth. He blinked. But before he could string together words, Steve stalked off towards their bedroom with a throwaway excuse about being tired. The door shut behind him with a finality that sat wrong with the fae.

 

He looked back at the candle. They were supposed to burn for a whole twenty-four hours--he knew that. The quality of the wick wasn’t great on this one either. Perhaps it was cheating but Bucky hoped that somehow Steve would forgive him for the charm he wove around the candle to keep it burning for twenty-five.

 

He stayed up watching the tiny flame dance and thrash against the oil and glass, repeating the prayer Steve had uttered under his breath over and over again until his eyelids drooped and his head lolled back against the wall in sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky fell out of the line, laughter shaking his shoulders as various teenagers scrambled passed them to find a trash bin to vomit in. Behind them, the Cyclone loomed like a threat and even Steve ‘I once fought a professional athlete for littering’ Rogers looked a little green around the gills. Bucky grinned wickedly at him.

 

“How can you be laughing?” Steve looked appalled. He glanced over his shoulder at the giant wooden roller coaster, then back at Bucky. “Are you even human?”

 

And really, Bucky couldn’t help the mischievousness in his tone. “Nope. You caught me, Steve. Nothin’ human about me.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes and slugged him hard in the shoulder before laughing. “About time you got a grip on sarcasm. Only took you two years, or somethin’.”

 

“Or somethin’,” Bucky said, non-committally.

 

Bucky slung an arm around his shoulders and pushed their way through the crowd towards the hotdog vendors Steve was fond of. The crowd wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The bright, sunny Saturday afternoon brought more than its fair share of couples, teenagers, and families to mill about Coney Island, but it was no Manhattan rush. Bucky hadn’t had to elbow anyone all day, which for New York, had to have set a goddamn world record.

 

Steve’s laughter has died down though, and not even the sight and smell of the roasting hotdogs could effectively tug him from the doom and gloom he had weighing on his shoulders. Blue eyes flickered around at the people that passed them, never really stopping on anyone in particular. But, Bucky did not miss how they never seemed to land on _him_.

 

“Aw, c’mon Stevie,” Bucky said, shaking his shoulders a little. Steve very much exaggerated how much he was jostled. “It’s my last day. Can we not spend it sulking?”

 

“Oh, is it?” Steve said dryly. “I’d almost forgotten.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes and moved to stand in front of Steve, holding him by the biceps. Steve glowered up at him.

 

“Should we go home?” Bucky asked, a serious tone to his voice. “I’m not coughing up all my savings so that you can be a shitty date.”

 

Steve snorted at that, muttered something about ‘putting out’ and shrugged off Bucky’s grip. His attention was directed elsewhere and it only took a glance to see he was staring at the Army recruitment tent in a way that Bucky was sure he thought was subtle. The fae let out a loud, long-suffering sigh.

 

“Fine, no hotdogs,” Bucky conceded. “But we’re going to the expo.”

 

Steve groaned. “Are you gunna ask a bunch of embarrassing questions again?” He paused to put on his best Bucky Barnes impersonation, which consisted of widening his eyes comically, scrunching his brows together, pushing his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout, miming holding up a drink, and saying in a low monotone, “You called this ‘ambrosia,’ but it is clearly not! There’s no honey--”

 

“That was one time!” Bucky protested.

 

“It was a _soda_ , Buck.”

 

Bucky laughed. “Whatever, Stevie. Point is, we’re going.”

 

Steve shrugged and nodded, but Bucky could see the smile curling around the corner of his lips. He threaded his arm through Bucky’s, nonchalant as could be, and Bucky marvelled at how steady he could be when his heart was pounding that fast. It wasn’t hand holding, but it was still a ballsy move, even for Brooklyn. He watched the firm set of Steve’s jaw, and the way he stared around defiantly, daring the multitudes of people (none of whom seemed to notice any significant change) to comment.

 

So Bucky squeezed his arm close, and guided him towards the tents set up on the other end of the amusement park before he could figure out a way to start fights telepathically.

 

Last year’s expo had been riddled with tiny do-dads, trinkets, and gadgets so small they could fit into the palm of your hand. This year, everything was big. There was a huge display tank that shone brightly under its own spotlight. A sleek missile hung down from the peak of the middle tent, with the words ‘From Brooklyn With Love’ painted on the side of it. On the far wall, Bucky could see what looked like mannequins dressed in military uniforms, twenty of them at least, all posed to salute their viewers.

 

He didn’t need to look at Steve to feel the darkness bubbling up from the depths of his chest. Instead of waiting for it to manifest in the hollows of Steve’s cheekbones, he steered them towards the red-painted car sitting on the huge circular stage, lit up like an arena waiting for the main event, with people slowly congregating. Bucky pushed them towards the front.

 

“Hey Buck, you think that might run on ambrosia too?” Steve snickered beside him. Bucky nudged him with his elbow, grinning as the spotlights searched the stage until they gleamed off the red hood. The lights around them darkened, and five women in sequined dresses stepped out from behind the curtain. Their heels clacked on the stage top as they slowly moved into formation.

 

By the time the show was underway, Bucky was transfixed. Even with the hum of iron in the metal inventions surrounding him, Bucky’s gaze never left the car as it hovered above the stage without wings. The man, Howard, charmed the crowd like he was born to do it. He was all smiles and grand gestures as he pointed to images projected on a blank canvas. The way he explained the terms made it seem simple, yet something was off.

 

It wasn’t until he closed with thanking everyone for supporting Stark Industries that Bucky put two and two together.

 

Suddenly the iron in the room felt very intentional. Bucky stared at the missile hanging in the center of the tent warily, like it would come to life as the cold iron bomb the Stark hunters had created so many centuries ago. The hum of iron from the outfitted mannequins was less inconspicuous, less coincidental, and Steve thankfully didn’t protest as Bucky dragged them nearer.

 

“Good evening and thank you for supporting Stark--” the attendant to the display tried to greet them.

 

“‘Course, of course, gotta support the best and the brightest,” Bucky cut her off with a lazy grin he knew was charming. “But tell me, you look like a smart dame, yeah?”

 

She giggled. He felt Steve’s mood sour without turning around.

 

“Surely a gal like you’s got some inside scoop.” Bucky leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “The iron mesh in the clothing--what’s it for?”

 

Her eyes widened and she looked back and forth from Bucky, to Steve, to Bucky again. She glanced over her shoulder, brunette curls bouncing. She took a couple steps nearer, separating herself from the glow of the exhibit and the rest of the gawking patrons.

 

“How’d you know that?” She asked with a sly grin.

 

“Oh, y’know. Got a feelin’,” Bucky said. He could feel Steve’s eyes on the back of his neck and did his best to ignore them. “So? The iron mesh! Is that new, or…?”

 

“Stark’s been implementing it in all his latest stuff,” she said in a hushed voice. “Since the war started, he’s been insistent about adding it to all his weaponry and armor. Calls it the Iron-man Defense.”

 

Bucky nodded, trying not to frown. She looked at him expectantly, and he remembered to smile. He dug in his coat pockets for a pen and gestured to her hand with a small ‘may I?’ She nodded and giggled again. He hastily scrawled down Steve’s number, signing it with ‘Steve’ and several hearts. He pressed a kiss to the writing, never letting his eyes leave hers, then winked before he let her slender hand slip from his.

 

But when he turned around, there was no Steve.

 

Bucky groaned. He knew exactly where the blond had gone.

 

Sure enough, he found Steve sitting near a lamppost outside the recruitment tent. He was shuffling through his wallet, digging for an I.D. card he presumably hadn’t used yet. His thin fingers stumbled over the plastic cards, letting a couple fall from his grasp at first, then jumping in surprise as they clattered to ground. More fell out of his hands and scattered around him in a little ring. Bucky sighed, willing himself to just go back to the tent, learn more about why the ancient family of hunters was still prevalent in Steve’s world--why they still wove their clothing with cold iron thread.

 

But Steve’s swear under his breath made Bucky’s mind up for him and before the fae could think better of it, he was kneeling on the ground with Steve. He was scuffing up his nice new military slacks, but it didn’t matter. Seeing Steve’s face soften in recognition, then harden as he remembered exactly why he was mad at Bucky made it worth it. Bucky sorta hated that even Steve’s indignant sniff and the straightening of his shoulders made him homesick before he even left.

 

“Nice of you to catch up,” Steve said coldly.

 

Bucky raised a brow. “I take it the exhibit didn’t interest you?”

 

“Obviously not as much as Keira interested you,” Steve snapped, again proving that his temper had a wick the size of a thumbnail at best. He caught himself before the snarl on his face was obvious, and snatched the IDs out of Bucky’s hand. “Don’t worry about me. Go back to flirting.”

 

“Now that’s the stupidest thing you’ve asked me to do in a while,” Bucky drawled, watching Steve with a quirked brow. He asked, even though he knew the answer, “The hell’s gotten into you?”

 

“You!” Steve yelled. Bucky snickered and fully expected the smack that hit his left arm. The sadness laced through Steve’s voice then reminded him of the sting of cold iron in the soldier’s uniforms. “You’re leaving.”

 

Bucky’s good humour left him in a sigh. “Thought you were proud. Right thing to do, and all that.”

 

“I am,” Steve insisted. “I am, it’s just…”

 

“Keira?”

 

“Well that didn’t help your case,” Steve said irritably.

 

“I gave her your number, y’know,” Bucky said smugly. “Signed your name and everything. She’s totally going to call you.”

 

Instead of the blush he was hoping for, more fire spread through Steve’s mood and the blond all but exploded at him when he shoved at his chest. Bucky took a pace back and stared. Steve’s chest heaved with exertion, and Bucky waited for him to calm down.

 

“You’re leaving,” Steve repeated for the hundredth time. It didn’t hurt any less. “And I wanna be happy for you, I wanna be proud but--”

 

“Are you jealous?” Bucky interjected incredulously. “Are you kidding me, Steve? You’re _jealous?”_

 

“No! Well. Maybe. But… No. That’s not what I mean. No it’s just…” Steve waved his hand towards the expo tent. “The new life, the Keira’s of the world…”

 

Bucky stared at him levelly. “For you, you mean. I got her number for you.”

 

“I don’t want her number!” Steve exploded.

 

Bucky fell silent.

 

Steve dragged his hand down his face and took in a deep breath. He gestured wide with his hands, one towards the recruitment tent, and the other towards the expo. He clenched his jaw together and Bucky could feel the gears grinding in his head to churn out the right words. He let his arms drop helplessly at his sides, fingers twitching into fists that wouldn’t quite hold.

 

“It’s stupid,” Steve muttered. “It’s selfish.”

 

Bucky frowned then, stepping towards Steve slowly, hands reaching out to tug on Steve’s forearms and trail down until their fingers were linked. Steve stared at their intertwined hands, eyebrows tilting upwards in a way that made Bucky’s chest hurt.

 

“Hey,” he said gently, tugging Steve closer. “C’mere. Listen to me, okay?”

 

Steve trudged forward begrudgingly, but still kept his eyes on their hands until Bucky tugged on them again meaningfully. The same bright blue eyes he’d stared into so long ago under the Brooklyn Bridge looked up at him more lost than he’d ever seen. He could see the muscle on the side of Steve’s jaw twitching, could feel the horrible drop in Steve’s heartbeat and the vulnerability that spread in his chest like breath.

 

“Listen to me, okay?” Bucky swallowed, pushing forward past all the voices in his head that screamed at him not to. “You’re the best person I know. That I’ve ever known.”

 

The words left his mouth anti-climatically, but there was no sting. No discomfort in saying them, no feeling like he was being ripped apart at the seams. He let out a great shuddering sigh and let it sink in. Steve was the best person he’d ever known. Thousands of years of existence and here, this blond dumbass, was by far the most precious thing Bucky had ever encountered. He didn’t know what else to do to make it apparent that he was not (in fact, could not be) exaggerating, so he settled for squeezing Steve’s hands tight and staring stubbornly back into that disbelieving gaze.

 

“Buck--” Steve tried, but Bucky cut him off.

 

“No, I mean it Steve,” he said firmly. “You were right about fighting being the right thing to do. You’re right to want to protect your people. Losing everything--everyone--it’s… It’s something you should never have to go through. It’s wrong.”

 

Steve’s smile was weak but genuine. “Yeah, I know. Keep tellin’ you that I’m always right.”

 

Bucky huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, well. If I have my way of it, the war’ll be over before some quack gives you the chance to join me over there.”

 

“Not gunna tell me to stop applying?” Steve said with a curious look.

 

Bucky snorted. “Would you listen if I did?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

They stood there like that, Steve’s right hand casually swinging in Bucky’s left. The occasional squeeze of fingers reminding them both that the hands they held were live, were attached to each other. With Steve in front of the recruiter’s tent, and Bucky shadowed by the silhouette of the expo, the truth lingered on his tongue like a threat.

 

It would be so easy to tell Steve everything. To explain why he’d come to Brooklyn in the first place when some ninety pound blond sack of shit came hurtling out of the sky to change his life forever. It would be so easy to let the glamour roll off of him like water droplets on laminated sheets, to let his wings unfurl and speak for themselves. To pull him in close and kiss him again and again, uttering his confession between receptive lips and sharing the breath that bound them.

 

‘I love you,’ Bucky could have said.

 

‘I love you, too,’ Steve could have responded.

 

Instead, Bucky let his fingers slip from Steve’s grasp and jammed them into his pockets. “So…”

 

“You all packed?” Steve asked. Bucky could feel the lump in his throat.

 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Left some cash for you on the kitchen table. Stuff I’ve been saving up.”

 

Steve frowned. “Bucky, you don’t gotta--”

 

“I know, Steve,” Bucky said, maybe a little harsher than necessary. However, the money from the vial of blood had marked the point of no return. “I know. But I did, okay?”

 

Steve bit back another remark. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

 

Those blue eyes watched him expectantly, willed him to say something, anything. Steve glanced over his shoulder at the recruitment tent, and the fight left Bucky’s spirit. Steve looked so small next to it all. He looked delicate in the same way the humans portrayed the fae, with intelligence glittering in those all-too-observant eyes. Bucky swallowed thickly.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, yeah?” he said quickly, taking a step back before he could regret it. He did anyways.

 

“How can I?” Steve smiled, and Bucky couldn’t help but think it was a mercy. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The morning was brighter and more crisp than it had any right to be, Bucky thought. His pack was slung over his shoulder and despite all the warnings over the intercom, he hadn’t stopped to stow away the military standard issue pack, or adjust himself to his room. He’d instead focused all his efforts on yanking the steel bolts from the porthole of his temporary dormitory, frantically gesturing to Steve that he’s moving as fast as he can.

 

Steve’s hands were pressed on the glass, and he’d looking over at the port worriedly, yelling something that Bucky couldn’t hear. He could see the way Steve’s lips form his name when the foghorn sounds, and had his hands pressed up to where Steve’s are when the blond started frantically pounding at the glass. He stared helplessly as the boat started moving, trying to read Steve’s lips, trying to pick up on any of the feelings, thoughts, or vibes he could claw at through the ship’s thick metal exterior.

 

But they started moving faster, picking up speed impossibly quickly, and soon Steve was running to keep up. Bucky’s yelled Steve’s name, though he knew full well that Steve couldn’t hear him. Alone in the bunk room, Bucky didn’t bother to hide the glow in his eyes as he shouted, palms pressed flat against the ship’s interior.

 

Steve was caught, in the end, by a coughing fit. And Bucky watched him try to catch his breath as the ship pulled away from the port.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Barnes!”

 

Bucky looked to the man yelling orders at the cadets as they crawled beneath barbed wire. He’d been dreading his turn. It took a special amount of concentration to make small lacerations appear on his skin if he got nicked by the barbs, and frankly sleeping in a room full of humans he didn’t trust was not helping him get back into the groove of soldiering.

 

His CO waved him over, and Bucky jogged closer. “Sir, yes sir?”

 

Humans were weirdly insistent on rank and respect.

 

“Heard you got a near perfect session at the range,” his CO barked. Bucky wasn’t sure why he did--he was standing right there. He could hear him fine. “You ever handle a weapon before, son?”

 

Bucky thought carefully. “Yes, sir. Long time ago.”

 

The man raised an eyebrow at him and nodded slowly. “It shows. What all have you got experience with?”

 

 _Longbows. Spears. Javelins. Projectile magic._ Bucky frowned. “Long distance stuff mostly, sir.”

 

His CO looked surprised then. “Like sniper rifles?”

 

“More or less,” Bucky replied.

 

The man beside him nodded. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, soldier! They’ve got an opening in the marksmanship course and asked me to pick a cadet to send. I was thinking about sending Holmen.”

 

“With all due respect, sergeant--” Bucky spluttered, trying not to sound overly haughty. But his CO laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. It had taken weeks to stop flinching at that.

 

“Relax, Barnes. I’m sending you.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

His CO ended up dying in a firefight somewhere in France. He’d been leading a small squadron of men. Most of them made it back. The sergeant didn’t.

 

Bucky knew full well that the new rank being pinned to his chest was an act of necessity, but it didn’t make meeting the eyes of the surviving men any easier. Their sergeant’s funeral had been yesterday. Even in a state of emergency, this seemed… Crass.

 

“Congratulations, Sergeant Barnes,” the captain shook his hand and Bucky grit his teeth into a small smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 3-2-5-5-7-0--”

 

Electricity buzzed from the iron cuff around his ankle and shot up through his body, back arching and straining away from the stainless steel table. He writhed, letting a guttural scream rip from the bottom of his throat. The man holding the charge looked at him questioningly.

 

“Sergeant Barnes, there seems to be no record of you,” the man said, flicking the charge cable at his face like a threat.

 

The iron around his wrists and ankles stung. He could feel the essence of it sinking into his skin, and breaking up the magic in him like water and oil. His head was fuzzy with pain, but not so fuzzy that he forgot to scream when the charge tip touched the metal again.

 

“James-- Sergeant James B-Buchanan Barn… Barnes,” Bucky choked out. “3-2-5-5-7-0-2-8.”

 

The man tugged down the sterile surgeon’s mask he had around his nose and laid it gently on the metal tray next to Bucky’s head.

 

“If you cannot bring yourself to be useful,” he said, “perhaps one of your men will be more cooperative.”

 

Bucky’s chest heaved and he couldn’t think straight. Straining against the cuffs let the iron dig in deep, cut into his skin to leave very real red marks that bespoke of poisoning he wouldn’t be able to live through. It was important, he knew, it was of utmost importance that they did not know what he was. It was his only chance out.

 

The man picked up the gun from the tray table, clicked back the safety and aimed it against Bucky’s forehead. He only then registered the threat to his men.

 

“No!” Bucky hollered, butting his head against the barrel of the gun. “Leave them be. It’s just you an’ me, asshole. You sayin’ you’re giving up already?”

 

The revolver tapped thoughtfully against his nose, then drew up til it was level with his temple. Bucky leaned against it, grinned wide and winked at his captor in the way Steve had always said got the ladies blushing.

 

God he missed Steve.

 

He scrunched his eyes shut against the threat of the glow, focused, and opened them again. The man was staring at him curiously. Slowly, the revolver drew away and Bucky made a big show of breathing easier. The man laughed in his face.

 

“You’ve got balls, Sergeant,” he said. “Perhaps another hour or two of playing with you won’t hurt.”

 

“Buy me dinner and who knows,” Bucky said slyly. He just had to stall long enough for his men to escape. “Maybe I’ll put out.”

 

The charge touched his ankle brace again and this time he actually felt it. Something was wrong--

 

_\--“I feel… taller,” the voice came from inside his own chest, accompanied by bafflement, embarrassment--_

 

_\--everything felt brighter, felt clearer. He could breathe easier--when had he started breathing?--and the woman with brunette curls looked at him like he’d just swallowed a diamond and god did it remind him of Bucky, and--_

 

\--Bucky didn’t realize he was howling again until the man slapped him hard across the face. He looked irritated.

 

“Control yourself, Sergeant,” the man tsk’ed at him. “As much as I enjoy your singing, you do not want to wear out your welcome, do you?”

 

Bucky’s head was reeling.

He could feel cold pavement under his bare feet (he looked down, his boots were still on), could smell Brooklyn air and heard people shouting something about someone having a gun. He could only barely see through the fog of it to stare back at his captor long enough to realize that a response was expected of him.

 

So he summoned up all his strength, spit at the man’s face, and grinned again. “That all you got?”

 

And he thanked every lucky star he could think of that the captor chose that moment to press the electric charge against his belly, because the reaction was at least somewhat genuine. The pain in his voice cracked it in odd places, and the fear he felt flooding him was all too real when he heard Steve’s voice in his head.

 

 _...Bucky?_ Steve said, loud and clear. His voice echoed in the foreground of the vision like he had no idea how he was communicating. _Bucky, is that you?_

 

“Sergeant--” Bucky heaved for air. He was losing it, losing his grip. He wanted to wring his captor’s neck, wanted to show him why the fae were feared. He wanted to grab his men and run, but the iron bit into him without relief and offered no hiding from the thoughts that were undoubtedly Steve’s--impossibly Steve’s--and Bucky wasn’t sure he was going to make it. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 3-2-5-5-7-0-2--”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

He sat bolt upright in the middle of the night, or at least he thought he did. The Captain America apparel was still scattered around him from last night’s performance and Steve could still hear the voices of the show girls somewhere in the direction of the bonfire near their camp. The air around him seemed noticeably still, like it was frozen or thicker or intentionally solidifying against his breath.

 

Steve pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He didn’t think he would ever be used to having legs long enough to actually touch the ground and the cool dirt still shocked him.

 

Any time to savor the new sensation was ripped away when he heard that scream again. Steve bounded out of the tent in no time, barely registering the change in scenery quickly enough to feel the dirt that had changed to metal, that changed to cool white tile. He blinked quickly, trying to adjust to the sterile lighting where the moonlight should have been.

 

Instead of showgirls in front of him, he saw a man scribbling down notes on a clipboard in front of a table that held--

 

_“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 3-2-5-5-7-0--”_

 

“Bucky!” Steve’s voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. It was the third time he’d had this dream.  “Bucky, can you hear me?”

 

Bucky’s eyes flitted over to him, and for a second Steve could’ve sworn he saw them glow. His lips paused around the ‘2-8’, and his expression softened just enough to garner attention from the man in the clipboard.

 

“Getting tired, Sergeant?” He asked nonchalantly. “Could always give you a rest. You’ve done admirably. There’s no shame in calling it quits now.”

 

Bucky thrashed against the restraints and Steve rushed to his side. He tried to push the man in the rolling chair away, but his hands swept right through him. Steve cried out in frustration, trying and failing to grasp any of the bloodied items on the torture tray, screaming into the man’s ear and still getting no response.

 

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was barely audible.

 

“Mm?” The man looked up at Bucky again. “What was that?”

 

“S’no use, you can’t,” Bucky licked his lips and visibly focused to keep his eyes open and on Steve’s. “Shouldn’t be here at all. Shouldn’t…”

 

Bucky trailed off, head lolling. He fought to stay conscious and Steve touched a hand to Bucky’s cheek like he always did, not close enough to move through him--he couldn’t stand being so close and not being able to feel the heat of Bucky’s breath, or feel the way the air always shimmered around him.

 

“Stay with me, Buck,” Steve begged. “Please. I’m coming for you, okay? Just tell me where you are--”

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” the man stood up from the chair and pulled a revolver out of his pocket. He pressed the tip of it under Bucky’s chin, who looked alarmingly unperturbed. “I think you made a good candidate for our programs, but frankly we have no use for you at this time.”

 

Bucky’s eyes widened and he looked at Steve again with a lucidity Steve had never seen before in these dreams. The whole room felt sharper, like the details were being etched into his mind. He felt the hallways Bucky’s feet had dragged down when they came to fetch him from the cell, saw men waiting in a cage.

 

“Focus, Stevie,” he heard Bucky shout and he did. The interrogation room came flooding back and Bucky was looking at him. His eyes were glowing this time, and the room around them was frozen in time. “I can’t hold on to this much longer. Okay? I need you to listen close.”

 

“No,” Steve shook his head, trying to reach for Bucky again. “No, you gotta hold on Buck, you’ve--”

 

“Damnit, punk, listen to me.” Bucky hissed and Steve shut up. “I’m going to give you directions to the base, okay? Repeat’em back to me.”

 

Steve did. He repeated them four times, five times, until Bucky relaxed against the steel again. Steve tried one last time to pry the shackles off Bucky’s wrists and ankles, but like every other time he’d had this dream, he reeled back in pain, skin sizzling.

 

“Don’t know why you keep trying,” Bucky said tiredly. He looked at Steve and his face softened. “Tell my CO to send the strike team. Load’em up on ammo, and don’t go light on the armory, you hear me? It’s gunna take a lot to get my men out alive.”

 

“What about you?” Steve’s voice cracked in his throat. Bucky’s eyes were glowing a soft, other-worldly blue again. “I’m not just going to sit here and--”

 

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey,” Bucky nudged around the revolver pressed to his throat to catch Steve’s eyes again. “I’m gunna be okay, alright?”

 

Steve’s expression must’ve been pitiful. Bucky got that look he did whenever Steve was sulking and he got it in his head to ‘fix it.’

 

“Aw, c’mon now, Stevie. Don’t cry,” that horribly mischievous grin curled at the corners of his lips and Steve wanted to yell at him for it. “I’ll tell you a secret and everything, alright? I happen to be pretty good pals with _the_ Captain America.”

 

Steve let out a strangled noise that was either outrage, a sob, or a laugh. He honestly wasn’t sure. Bucky laughed, his adam’s apple bobbing against the barrel of the gun. The air around them loosened, and time slowly started to move normally. Bucky groaned, squinted his eyes shut for a moment and the room once again fell still.

 

“You gotta get out of here, Stevie. Okay?” Bucky urged, the panic in his eyes returning. “I can’t explain right now but I’ll be okay. I promise.”

 

“No, not without you--”

 

“Steve, _now!_ ”

 

Bucky’s voice was commanding, and Steve felt himself being pushed bodily out of the room into a place where he saw nothing but fuzzy grey static, white noise clouding in around him. He heard the interrogator ask Bucky something. Could barely hear Bucky’s pained groan. But he could recognize Bucky’s laugh from worlds away and even with the crushing white noise closing in around his senses, he caught the first couple refrains of Bucky singing off-key.

 

“ _Who’s strong and brave here to save the American wa--_ ”

 

He heard the gunshot.

 

Steve woke up somewhere in France, choking on tears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re going after him, right?” Peggy said in the same tone she’d used when she suggested that Steve was meant for something more.

 

Her hair was perfectly in tact after a long day of drills and she used a long manicured nail to tuck one of the perfect curls behind her ear. Steve stared down at his rations and tried to ignore the tidal wave of jealousy that seemed to bust from a leak in the back of his mind.

 

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled.

 

 _What?_ Bucky’s voice sounded alarmed. _What part of send reinforcements didn’t you understand? It’s too dangerous--_

 

“Can you still feel everything he feels?” She asked, eyes narrowed.

 

Steve shook his head. “Not sure. Sometimes I can’t tell if… I might just be imagining things, Peg.”

 

She nodded, red lips pulled into a sharp pout. “Fae blood is notoriously inconsistent. Some legends wrote in great detail on the searing pain suffered by those who ingested it. Other inscriptions depicted the experiments ending only when the sufferer was quite literally torn limb from limb.”

 

Steve cringed.

 

“Obviously, neither of these seem to be the case for you,” She smiled. “Though we only have Erskine’s word that he really did manage to find faerie blood somehow.”

 

Steve nodded.

 

 _He used what?_ Bucky’s voice was shrill in Steve’s head. _He injected you with what? Steve, are you kidding me? I was gone for, what, seven months? And you go and inject yourself with some goddamn fae blood. Unbelievable!_

 

 _What was I supposed to do?_ Steve returned, angrily. _Sit around and collect scrap metal?_

 

 _Yes!_ Bucky’s voice reverberated through his skull so loudly it was almost painful. He winced and heard the tail end of Peggy’s giggle.

 

“Is he…?” She trailed off.

 

“That obvious?” He said sheepishly.

 

Bucky’s voice quieted, and the white noise returned in its absence. Steve could taste bile in the back of his throat and all but saw red. He knew now exactly what silence meant.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The white noise went uninterrupted for a full week. And for one full week, Steve tried to convince his agent to send him out to where the 107th was stationed. He’d responded that the area was too close to enemy lines, that a show would garner more attention than that troop could handle. Then made a crack about how half the troop had been captured anyway--that he’d be in for the smallest audience of his career.

 

Steve felt sick to his stomach.

 

Peggy pointed to another spot on the map between them. “It’s not as close as the 107th, obviously, but--”

 

“I need to get there now,” Steve interjected. Peggy gave him a patient look that he had no time for. “It’s been a week, Pegs. He hasn’t ever gone a week without saying something. Anything.”

 

Peggy’s lips settled into a grim line. “Can you feel anything?”

 

Steve shook his head. He reached out in the way Peggy had taught him, trying to find the center of his existence and stretch it. The white noise got neither louder nor quieter.

 

 _Bucky?_ Steve prodded. _Please, Buck. Anything. I need you to tell me you’re alive. I’m close, I’ve almost got them convinced to send out a troop--_

 

The words stung as he thought them and he reeled back into his shell. He took deep, steadying breaths and waited for the pain to ease out of his system like a ringing bell. Peggy’s hand wove into his and squeezed once comfortingly.

 

“It’s something,” Steve said exasperatedly. “I tried to tell him they were gunna send a troop--”

 

“You lied?” Peggy’s eyebrows shot up. “How did it feel?”

 

“Painful,” he said carefully. “Why?”

 

She sighed. “That wasn’t Sergeant Barnes, Steve. Fae cannot lie.”

 

“What?” Steve squawked indignantly. “Bullshit. Bucky was the most mischievous son-of-a-bitch I ever knew.”  

 

“No doubt,” Peggy brushed her thumb over his. “But it’s common knowledge amongst any familiar with magic. If you want a truly potent truth spell, you use fae mushrooms. Fae hair, if you can find it.”

 

Steve plucked one of his own blond strands off his shoulder, and held it out warily. “Does test-tube fae count?”

 

Peggy took the strand gingerly, looking at it like it was precious. “I… I don’t know the answer to that.”

 

“Some witch you are,” Steve huffed, giving her hand a teasing squeeze. She grinned at him.

 

“Tell you what though,” She said withthat glint in her eye that reminded him so much of Bucky. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

 

She set Steve’s hair in the middle of the table between them and brought both hands, palm upwards, to rest gently on either side. She pursed her lips and tugged them off to the side in thought, then reached forward without warning to pluck one of the fluffy white feathers from Steve’s right wing. He yelped, the wing retracting involuntarily and knocking over the stool next to him. He could feel his face heating up and shot Peggy a glare as he got up to right the fallen stool. She pretended not to notice.

 

When he sat back down, she had tied the hair around the base of the feather. The tiny little golden bow glimmered against the soft white. Steve wondered glumly if he’d get his wings under control before he rescued Bucky, or if that was was going to be another awkward conversation after ‘why the hell are you taller than me?’ If the height wasn’t enough to throw off _whatever_ it was they had, surely sprouting wings would do the trick.

 

The gunshot rang loud and clear in his memories, though. Whatever they had had? It was unimportant. Bucky needed to be safe. Steve would handle whatever else that meant.

 

Peggy hummed the incantation under her breath for the third time before she wiggled her fingers to invite him to place his hands on top of hers. When he had, she took in a deep breath and focused on the feather. Black spilled from her pupils like ink until it had flooded her irises and the surrounding white in a solid shade. She tapped an index finger on the center of his palm.

 

“I need you to picture him. Something that makes you feel him,” She explained. “A memory that is distinctly Bucky.”

 

Steve nodded and closed his eyes. He wondered if he should have maybe pretended to have thought about it longer, but the memory of their kiss still bubbled to the surface with embarrassing ease. He remembered the way Bucky’s hand felt on his waist, remembered the closeness as they swayed to the old record. He remembered staring at his feet, sure that if he looked up he would almost certainly give himself away.

 

He remembered Bucky stammering on the question, somehow still more composed than Steve. He remembered interrupting him because he couldn’t wait a second longer. Couldn’t handle how gently Bucky held his face, like he was something fragile.

 

“Good,” Peggy’s voice broke through. She cleared her throat. “Hold on to that.”

 

As if he had ever had a choice.

 

Her power started at a simmer, pulsing out from her heart, down her arms, then extending through her fingers to invade Steve’s blood like vines. He could feel his own essence recoil in suspicion and tried to soothe the rumbling.

 

“Try again,” she urged, squeezing his hand. “Reach out to him.”

 

So he did. It was so much easier this time, like his energy had been harnessed and given a focus. He felt himself extending past the campsite, past enemy lines, over tree tops and beyond wintery white mountains. He recognized the base through Bucky’s memories and dove inside it. He already knew the path to Bucky by heart.

 

He slipped under the crack in the door. The stainless steel table was empty and for a second Steve’s heart dropped.

 

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice was barely audible, but Steve whipped around to find him resting slack on the floor of a haphazardly thrown together cell. The bars were thick and by the cold they gave off--they were iron. Steve gritted his teeth and took a step towards Bucky anyway.

 

“It’s me,” he said, trying weakly to smile. “I’m here.”

 

Bucky lurched forward, hand splayed outwards in warning. “You have to get out of here, Steve, you gotta--”

 

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Steve knelt down to where Bucky’s eye level. “Just needed to know you’re alive.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Bucky’s voice broke and his chest caved forward so suddenly Steve thought he’d been hit. He choked on his words, hands clawing at the sides of his temples. “I dunno what did it, I dunno. It’s never happened before but you shouldn’t-- You shouldn’t be able to feel anything, alright?”

 

Bucky’s concentration slipped, and Steve felt the iron bars that kept Bucky caged with a burning intensity that had him drop to his knees. Pain blinded him, left him opening his mouth to scream but he couldn’t get the air to push anything from his lungs.

 

“--shit, Stevie? Stevie?” Bucky’s voice broke through as the pain subsided and again Steve struggled to get his bearings. Bucky was leaning forward, resting his torso on his knees, eyes glowing and intent on Steve. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I should’a told you back in Brooklyn. I should’a--”

 

Steve tried to speak and fell backwards back into his own reality without Peggy to support him. She knelt beside him--when had he fallen?--and had his head rested on her knees. The sharp ache from the back of his skull could’ve been from the floor or residue from the cold iron bars he felt through Bucky.

 

The ones Bucky was protecting him from.

 

Steve pushed himself upright too quickly and gagged. The room was spinning around him, and Peggy’s hand was rubbing small circles in his back. She mumbled something but Steve was already shaking his head.

 

“Tonight. We gotta go _tonight_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Sergeant James… Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 3-2-5-5-7-0-2-8. S-Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes--”

 

“Bucky,” Steve breathed the man’s name and like magic, he looked up at Steve. His eyes were flooded with a dim light blue. He rushed forward, thankful for the leather padding on his gloves when he gripped the iron bar to yank it free from the cement. Even with it, the iron stung. “Buck, what did they do to you? I thought you were dead.”

 

Bucky eyed his wings with something akin to awe in his eyes. Steve stumbled over his words, trying to find a way to explain, a way to make it seem not as bizarre. There was a doctor, and fae blood, and now--

 

Bucky reached up gently to touch his hands to Steve’s temples. Loud and clear, Steve could hear his voice. Loud and clear Steve heard Bucky tell him: “It’s okay, Stevie. We can talk about it later. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

 

Steve couldn’t help the tears that pricked in the corners of his eyes, and laughed when Bucky nudged him playfully. Besides, based off the glow radiating from Bucky’s gaze, Steve wasn’t the only one with news.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even though Bucky had limped off to his own tent about as quickly as he could manage, Steve’s mind still replayed the vision of tawny wings spreading impossibly wide. He couldn’t stop hearing the unearthly voice bellowing ‘not without you’ as Bucky--his Bucky--had launched into the air across the flaming pit to literally pull Steve from the jaws of hell.

 

He hadn’t asked any questions as Bucky flew them out. He couldn’t think of where to start.

 

But now, hours later, the fight had left Bucky’s eyes and he’d started avoiding the gazes of Steve and the Commandos alike. No one said anything. No one dared.

 

Except, of course, for Steve. He could practically hear Bucky scolding him before he opened his mouth, but did it anyway.

 

“You all gunna turn him in?” Steve set his jaw and stared down the men in front of him. Dum Dum looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Steve rolled his eyes. “C’mon. We saw what we saw. I wanna know if any of you are going to be a problem for him.”

 

“Yeah, ‘cuz that’s real welcomin’ to conversation,” Dum Dum snorted. “Anyone ever tell you that you’d make a great spy, Cap?”

 

The other commandos did very little to hide their snickers and Steve felt his blood boil. “He took weeks of torture for you. Pain you can’t even imagine--”

 

“Relax, would’ya?” Dum Dum held up a hand to ease Steve like a spooked horse. “We ain’t telling nobody.”

 

Steve paused mid-rant, blinking. “Oh.”

 

“Now,” Dum Dum waved in the general direction of Bucky’s tent. “You gunna get gone, or…?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “Yeah....Thanks.”

 

The leaves that crunched under his boots sounded louder and louder as he left the ambient noise of the firepit behind him. Moonlight streaked through the alpine trees, dotting the ground in odd light blue patterns, catching the shadows at just the right angles until it seemed like the forest had claws. Steve swallowed the lump in his throat.

 

Bucky’s tent was obvious. Unlike the others the door had been zipped shut tightly, no slit left open for air, no space for the non-existent light inside to spill out from. It looked barely large enough to fit Bucky laying down and Steve wondered grimly how long it had been since Bucky had seen a proper bed.

 

Maybe now wasn’t the right time. Maybe he should wait--

 

No. Steve pushed forward. He’d done enough waiting. It was now or never.

 

He knelt down at the door of the tent and awkwardly tried to knock against the fabric. He waited until he heard something inside rustling to speak.

 

“Bucky?”

 

The tent stilled. Steve held his breath.

 

“You awake?”

 

Nothing. Not even evidence of movement. Steve felt a little bit bad for using his newly enhanced senses for something so petty, but….He cleared his throat.

 

“I gotta…I gotta tell you something, Buck.” Steve’s voice was low, pleading. “You don’t gotta say anything. Just listen, okay?”

 

Predictably, Bucky said nothing. Steve rolled his eyes and pushed on.

 

“I don’t gotta tell you that you mean the world to me, but you do. You should know that, alright? And a lot has happened since you left. I got this ancient fae blood pumped into my veins, I can hear thoughts, there’s these wings and--God, Buck, I can’t tell you how many glasses of water I’ve knocked over just by turning around--and I can breathe without wheezing. How strange is it that’s the best part about it? I can breathe. I can run. In theory, I can fly, but right now all I can do is produce a nice breeze, and--”

 

He cut himself off. Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

“Point is, I don’t know why you’ve got wings. I dunno how you managed to hide’em in our tiny apartment, and frankly have so many questions, including ones about whether or not your eyes glow. But…I know that I can’t really lie anymore. That’s another thing I can explain but--The point is, Buck, I love you.”

 

He stopped, letting the words settle heavy in the air between him and the still closed tent. His heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he couldn’t hear the sounds of the forest around him anymore. He strained his hearing for any sort of rustling, any sort of anything. He stared at the fabric of the tent, willing it to pull away and see Bucky’s face. Anything, even rejection was better than this silence.

 

Then he saw it. It started small, like the dot of a firefly. The glow moved a little to the left, gradually spreading until it shone like a small sun. Steve thought back to the scared glow in Bucky’s eyes and panicked. He reached out, unzipping the opening frantically.

 

“Bucky, you okay? Are you hurt, or--”

 

When the door flap fluttered off to the side, Steve was rendered speechless. Bucky’s tawny wings were bent and circled around him, framing him where he sat. His hair had gotten longer since he’d left Brooklyn and his bangs hung into his eyes, stringy and matted. Red and purple bruising circled his wrists from the chains, and his whole bare torso was dotted with marring. There was one scratch from the left point of his collarbone, trailing down to his stomach and Steve had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it. And sure enough, his eyes were glowing a pale blue like concentrated moonlight (the least remarkable thing about the situation, really). Bucky’s eyes were wide, and his lips were just slightly parted. He looked like he was caught in headlights.

 

And Steve felt, clear as he could feel his own, Bucky’s fear and Bucky’s hope. He could feel how Bucky’s mind raced into all different directions at once, words a jumble in their mad dash to get free. He could practically taste the frozen chill that kept Bucky still--that kept him speared on the end of Steve’s gaze.

 

Steve moved forward slowly on his hands and knees, never letting his eyes off of Bucky. The man in front of him stayed statue still as Steve brought a hand up to run across his jaw gently. He sat back on his heels, leaning forward as much as the rocky ground beneath them would allow.

 

“I love you,” Steve whispered, trying with every ounce of his being to radiate it the same way Bucky’s eyes shone with want. “You are _so_ beautiful.”

 

“I…” Bucky paused, chewing on his bottom lip. “Stevie, I--”

 

Steve didn’t wait to crash their lips together. He could hear Bucky’s response as clear as day, and it tasted like Brooklyn against his lips, strong as if it the city had never once faltered.

 

_\--love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I--_

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were halfway up a goddamn mountain before Steve realized the constant chatter he couldn’t pin on a source came from Bucky. Ten streams of thought flowed through and around him, weaving and changing as the circumstances did. Occasionally they would merge into one louder strand, glowing bright red as they touched Steve’s mind.

 

Some of them repeated memories of basic training as the applicable moments came (‘tie your boots this way’ ‘shoulder your pack this way’). A quieter stream spoke only when Bucky would spot a good vantage point and it shared anything from proper technique to the faces that still haunted the sniper’s mind. One loudly complained about the cold, and reminisced on warm Brooklyn days. Steve would catch glimpses of himself in those memories. When he looked over to present day Bucky, he found the man smiling at him fondly.

 

“You’re so loud,” Steve teased. “S’a wonder I couldn’t hear you back in Brooklyn.”

 

Bucky grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Is it too much?”

 

White noise peeked in through the corners of Steve’s mind, filling the silence as Bucky’s mind retreated back into its own confines. Steve snatched Bucky’s wrist before they could fade completely, halting them both abruptly.

 

“No!” Steve said frantically. “No, it’s comforting. I like it.”

 

A smile tugged at Bucky’s lips. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve smiled back. He let his hand trail down from Bucky’s wrist to his fingers, twining them together with his own. “Not a fan of the silence.”

 

Bucky’s thoughts and feelings took on a strange, bitter note. There were sounds and songs in a language Steve didn’t understand. Beautiful people with glowing eyes danced around Bucky in circles, twisting and twirling fast enough to have their tissue thin sashes fluttering behind them. Their faces were obscured in the way that old memories would blur the faces of old friends.

 

“Who…?” Steve started. Bucky shook his head, gesturing behind them at the Howling Commandos that had caught up.

 

“Tell you later.”

 

Steve watched Bucky focus then, watched his eyebrows draw together and the corner of his jaw twitch as the light in his eyes died down. He felt the nervousness and fear that tingled at the backs of his kneecaps, settling in with thorns like claws beneath the flats of his shoulder blades. Watched, saddened, as Bucky tried to make himself appear more human.

 

When the crew was gathered around finally, Bucky turned to Steve with a wry grin that made him think they’d never left Coney Island.

 

“So, Cap,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

 

Those eyes locked on him, glittering like the supernatural glow was constantly threatening to come back as Steve talked. He explained, with an apologetic look towards Bucky, that they would need his wing-power to make sure the timing of the jump was accurate. It was just too risky, otherwise.

 

 _Proud of you,_ Bucky mumbled into his head. _Skinny kid from Brooklyn would be proud too._

 

Steve tried to keep his pulse steady to prevent his face from heating up in front of the Commandos, but the efforts seemed to be in vain when Dum Dum cleared his throat meaningfully.

 

“With all due respect, Cap,” the man’s moustache twitched like he was hiding a grin. “Me n’ the men got something we gotta say to our Sarge, here.”

 

Bucky went perfectly still.

 

“Just wanted ya to know that we always knew you were a poof,” Dum Dum said, gesturing between him and Steve meaningfully with a wink. Steve’s jaw dropped but Dum Dum cut him off quickly. “Ain’t news that you’re also a fairy.”

 

They stood in silence for a beat too long before the laugh bubbled up from Steve’s throat.

 

“Don’t worry, Sarge,” Morita piped up, “we won’t tell no one that you sparkle or whatever.”

 

Bucky took one step forward and decked the man. Steve was already laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. Just briefly, he was able to forget about the danger in front of them.

 

Even with Sergeant Barnes guiding their speed on the zipline, the mood was tense. No one said a word when their boots hit the top of the train, echoes rattling through the cars beneath them. Instantly, Steve knew something was wrong. The same sting in the air he remembered from the interrogation room was biting at his skin. He shot a worried look at Bucky, unsurprised to see him scowling, looking for a source of the discomfort.

 

“What is that?” Steve shouted over the wind.

 

“Cold iron.”

 

Steve tried to send the feeling of confusion towards Bucky, gratified when the man gave him a small impressed grin.

 

 _Will explain later,_ Bucky’s voice pressed into his head, calm and clear as ever. _Will explain everything later. Okay?_

 

 _Okay,_ Steve projected as hard as he could.

 

Bucky winced.

 

 _So loud,_ he teased before he dropped into an open hatch on the roof of the train car. Steve rolled his eyes and followed.

 

There were men waiting for them and the attacks rained on them from all directions as soon as their boots hit the floor. Bucky moved in a flurry, wings tucking into his shoulders like they’d never existed and Steve made a note to ask him how to do that later. His own huge white wings flopped around clumsily behind him--though, they did knock a guy out when he spun around fast enough. He stared at the man’s knocked out corpse, shrugging when Bucky gave him a questioning look.

 

The man that charged into their car next was different. He smelled wrong, like his blood had been infected with something that didn’t take. The way Bucky stepped in front of Steve protectively told Steve that his prediction was right. But this was neither the first, nor the last time that Bucky Barnes had tried to stop Steve from getting into a fight. So Steve ‘Little Shit’ Rogers ducked down and slid under Bucky’s outstretched arm to plant his fist square in the man’s gut.

 

He heard Bucky cry out in distress behind him before darting forward to tackle their attacker. Bucky’s wings were out again, giving him just enough leverage to get an arm around the man’s shoulders, holding him back. Steve reared back to land another hit, but stopped. The man’s teeth were extending, ripping his gums to shreds. Bones poked through the fingertips of the hands he used to claw at Bucky’s grip, the white curving into sharp talons stained red with his own blood.

 

His chest curved inward and Bucky struggled to keep his grip. The man managed to grab the baton he had attached to his waist and Steve watched in horror as his skin actually sizzled around the grip.

 

 _Cold iron,_ Bucky shouted, and Steve faltered under the volume of it. _Get back!_

 

The baton hit his side like a cobra strike, and he felt it rattle his ribcage. Steve curled in on himself, arm up above his head trying to block the strikes aimed at his head. All his new strength made no difference. All his speed didn’t matter. This hydra agent with a fucking cold iron baton was going to take him down like he was still in that alleyway, still trying to hide behind that garbage lid.

 

He could hear Bucky hollering as he latched himself to the man’s back again, fists pummeling the back of his head and crying out when he smashed the baton against Bucky’s knees. Bucky dropped off of him with a thud. The man kicked open the side door of the car. Steve tried to stand up and stumbled, the wind whipping in from the outside catching under his wings and pulling him back. He watched in horror as the man raised the baton again, swinging down towards a prone Bucky.

 

Bucky grabbed the iron in his bare hands, and Steve could hear the way his skin crackled, could feel the screaming pain same as the interrogation room. He lurched forward, throwing his shield at the man’s head, satisfied at the snap it made as it hit across his chest. The man stumbled back, just barely catching himself on the open door, eyes wild.

 

Steve could see now the way broken bones stuck out from his flesh unnoticed.

 

Bucky was on his feet again in a second, shaking the pain from his head like it was nothing and trying to pry the man’s grip from the door with a murderous look Steve would have never thought possible. Steve watched the plan form. He watched Bucky’s eyes flick to the baton strewn a few feet away on the floor, and watched at those blue eyes locked on the monstrosity he grappled with.

 

Bucky shoved the man away and scrambled for the baton, screaming as soon as he made contact with it. Steve scrambled to get his shield, his wings tugging behind him like a kite. He watched his best friend raise the baton and watched as the man let go of the door to wrap his arms around Bucky’s torso and lean backwards. Steve hauled himself to his feet, barely aware of the scream that ripped from the bottom of his gut until he saw Bucky’s wings spread.

 

Those great tawny wings stretched and struggled to keep up with the speed of the train while Bucky kicked and bit at the rapidly decaying hydra agent, frantically trying to shake him off. He managed to pry his hands free and Steve felt the hope in his chest rise again as Bucky shot him a triumphant grin.

 

Bone talons dug into Bucky’s left wing instead in one last desperate attempt to take down the sergeant. His bloody maw bit down on the joint and Steve could swear he heard the cracking of bone even through the muffling of the wind and snow. Steve saw the iron baton in the man’s grip again and screamed out in warning.

 

It was too late.

 

The iron hit Bucky at the juncture where his shoulder supported his wing and the wing crumpled. Bright blue eyes flashed in fear and Steve watched the light of his eyes fade into the powdery mountain as the train ripped him away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Steve Rogers woke up in the 21st century, it wasn't the ballgame that he noticed first. Nor was it the hastily covered outlet on the wall, or the woman wearing a man's tie with a hairstyle that wasn't quite right.

 

No, the first thing the man out of time noticed was the white noise that spread through his head like it belonged.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to make abundantly clear that I do plan on writing fluff. honest. i swear.
> 
> one more left.
> 
> also go check out this [fuckin amazing art](https://getmcfucked.tumblr.com/post/158792576132/mccrees-left-arm-warm-up-sketch-based-on) [Lefty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/pseuds/LeftHand) drew for me of sniper assassin fae Bucky. I couldn't help but attach a little drabble in response because, like bucky, im a petty pos. anyway, go compliment them on their art skills because im p sure they no longer listen to my screaming.


	5. Steve, Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was 1942 and they were dancing.

 

_The way light seeps in is fractured, split and cracked into sheets that distort the world into pale shades of blue. The bulk of it misses him, dodges his body completely, wrapping around where he lays trapped in the prism. It would be warm, he thinks, if that light would inch just a little to the left and touch his skin. The fractures stay stubbornly still and distantly he’s aware that he’s cold._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve felt his shoulders tense as the man behind him in the deli said some truly horrific things about women. He flexed his fingers, feeling his knuckles pop and casually shifted his weight to where he could spin at a moment’s notice. The fae blood in his veins meant that he didn’t have to strain to hear the vile things he snickered about ‘legs for days’. His jaw clenched as the man continued. Steve focused on the digital number at the top of the deli line and tried to drown out the urge to deck the man with thoughts of bagels and lox.  

 

The twenty-first century was a mess of paradoxes. The huge cameras with shattering bulbs of the 40’s had been abandoned in favour of handycams, phone cameras, and even headsets made to look like glasses. You had to look for the little red recording light instead of the bright flashes. Tony taught him that. But it was Natasha that warned him about the pen shaped recording devices after one too many interviews Steve hadn’t known he was in. It still felt weird to just ignore people when they approached him with questions but after the whole Asgardian mess, Fury had made it very clear that their little team couldn’t afford any more PR screw-ups.

 

Which meant that Steve had to be on his best behavior. _No fights_ , Fury had warned. _No political statements._ _Nothing_.

 

The man behind him jostled his buddy, following up a back handed compliment with ‘no homo’. Steve could feel his hackles raising. The number on the sign was getting closer to his own. Just three away.

 

 _Best behavior, Rogers,_ he reminded himself.

 

Not that his team knew any better. As far as they were aware, Steve had never so much as _sworn_ , never mind gotten into fist fights at the deli. But even without the unspoken threat from the head of SHIELD, Steve’s fire stayed firmly out of reach.

 

And like before, he felt that awful static humming in the back of his head. It stayed steady, draining the life from his muscles like sand through a sieve. An ever present reminder. The man’s words behind him were drowned in the deafening silence. No sharp words of reprimand. No waves of concern. No soft eyes under a mop of messy brown hair to pretend that he was anything less than proud of Steve defending whoever-the-fuck he’d defended that week. Just silence.

 

Silence and static.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s 1942 and they’re dancing again. The warble of Blackbird leaked into their apartment and Steve couldn’t quite see Bucky’s face. Every time he turned, the other man matched his steps.

 

“ _You’re gunna want to match me, y’know?_ ” Bucky’s voice was weak under the song, distant, and Steve struggled to catch it.

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

He stepped forward again and Bucky stepped back. He turned his face and Bucky spun him in a little circle. Steve tried to squirm away from the hand on his hip, looking up into the soft blue glow where Bucky’s eyes should’ve been. But everything stayed hazy, like he was trying to see Bucky’s features through water.

 

He strained upwards trying to get closer, trying to reach out and grab Bucky’s shoulders. The other man pivoted and stepped up into the air with him. The hand on his waist was firm and ghost-light simultaneously and Steve tried to grasp at it desperately. He could feel the wheeze in his chest, either a memory of his asthma or tears threatening to blur his vision further.

 

“Buck, please, stop dancing. I need to see you,” he pleaded, but the memory danced onwards and upwards.

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

The ceiling of their apartment gave way to the Brooklyn sky at dusk, the orange light bouncing off pillars of steam from the industrial factories too sharp against Bucky’s blue. The hand that held his pushed away and Steve stepped in time, desperate for the dance to continue, reaching back for the hand when he was supposed to.

 

Bucky’s wings spread out around him and his uniform was crisp. The rifle on his back was too familiar and Steve felt his heart sink even as his own wings beat traitorously, taking him higher into the sky. He stretched, fingers spread wide trying to grab onto something, anything.

 

“ _Yeah, Stevie,_ ” Bucky’s voice echoed around his ears, the audio of the dance memory no longer synced with the sight of Bucky struggling to keep flying. Snow pelted against them both and Steve watched as his left wing twisted and broke. Watched Bucky’s face come to life in vibrant detail as he fell, eyes glowing bright. The blue seared into Steve and faded beneath the sight of Brooklyn below, Bucky taking the corporeal world with him as he fell.

 

Still, Steve rose higher.

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

“ _Like that,_ ” Bucky’s voice murmured, his warm laugh still as clear as it had been in 1942. “ _Little bit faster now, alright?_ ”

 

Steve woke up drenched in sweat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tony’s on about some new advancement he’s got underway and Steve wasn’t even pretending to pay attention. He’d grabbed one of the data pads Tony left on every other counter and was scrolling through the news feed. There had been more bombings. More civilian deaths. The scare articles that framed each stretch of legitimate news made his stomach turn. Too much of it was similar to the crap he’d seen in the Times back during World War II. Too much of it was legitimizing the rhetoric of bigots, racists, and--

 

“--Earth to Capscicle. Are you with me?” Tony’s voice pierced through his concentration and Steve blinked. Tony had rolled his chair over to him and leaned in, as if trying to bodily get between Steve and the datapad. When Steve focused on him, Tony smiled tightly. “Wanna take a break, maybe?”

 

“I am taking a break,” Steve groused. He gestured around himself pointedly. “Sitting down, reading, not fighting anything.”

 

Tony reached forward and snatched the data pad from his grasp before Steve could react and scanned his eyes over the material. He lifted a brow and gave Steve a stern look. “Ah, yes. International war updates. The usual light reading.”

 

“I have to stay informed.” Steve shrugged helplessly.

 

“No,” Tony said, scooting away on his rolling chair, back to the heart of the lab. He dropped the data pad off on the desk next to his project. “No, you don’t. In fact, you could bury your head in the sand. Retire, even.”

 

“Tony--”

 

“No,” Tony waved a tool at him irritatedly and Steve didn’t even have the foggiest idea what it was supposed to be. “None of the puppy eye bullshit. You need to take a breather from everything.”

 

He paused, back straightening. He twisted to give Steve a curious look.

 

“Do you even need to breathe?”

 

Steve blinked at him. He looked down at his own chest rising and falling. He hadn’t really been breathing while he was under the ice, in theory. But that was some kind of forced hibernation or some other term that Steve didn’t understand. He held his breath experimentally.

 

Tony watched, wide eyed.

 

The burn in his lungs never came. No lightheadedness. Steve still expected the tickle of weak lungs to sabotage his efforts, but that never happened either. His muscles whined a little in protest but it didn’t set off any warning bells in his head. He grinned sheepishly at Tony. The mechanic whistled low, nodding approvingly.

 

“Useful. No discomfort?”

 

“Some,” Steve tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs to push out. So he coughed and started breathing again. “Can’t speak without breathing, apparently.”

 

“Makes sense. The air passing your vocal chords and vibrating at different resonances is what gives you your voice,” Tony mumbled to himself and Steve caught every other word or so. “And the fae communicated telepathically anyway. Not big on vocalization. Plus, they wouldn’t have much need for oxygen since their physiology runs on magic anyway. Betcha anything your blood donor wouldn’t have even felt the discomfort.”

 

Steve nodded, looking at the data pad. If his giant fucking wings didn’t slow him down every time he tried to get up, he could’ve probably made a dash for it and nabbed it before Tony could stop him. Like they had minds of their own, his left wing twitched irritably and a white feather fluttered to the floor of the lab. Tony scrunched his nose.

 

“You don’t moult, do you?” he asked, looking grossed out.

 

“No!” Steve snapped defensively. He paused. There had been a couple times when he’d found little piles of tawny feathers stashed under their nightstand, or in the corner of the closet, and… He sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

 

Tony’s face was unreadable. “Shit. You really don’t know anything about the fae, do you?”

 

“I read Peggy’s book,” Steve said, huffing.

 

“Read the Stark manual instead.” Tony pointed to the bookshelf. “I know it’s racist and genocide-y in that special hunter way, but. She never cited her sources, so.”

 

“Yeah, that would be because I was her source.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Top secret and all that. And--”

 

Steve cut himself off.

 

Steve had scoured the records of the war when he’d woken up and it was like someone had deliberately erased James Buchanan Barnes from history. He got briefly referenced as ‘a friend’ of Captain America, and ‘the sergeant’ of the Howling Commandos, but never addressed by name. Never once mentioned as anything other than human. And Peggy had listed all her sources as anonymous.

 

Tony looked at him expectantly. “And?”

 

“And it’s not like she could’ve cited me without committing treason, Tony,” Steve recovered semi-smoothly.  

 

Tony grinned again. “What’s a little treason between friends?”

 

“Probably dishonourable discharge.” Steve pressed his mouth into a grim line. “She had a hard enough time being taken seriously--”

 

“My God, do you ever take the stick out of your ass?” Tony whined. “I was _kidding_.”

 

Steve snorted.

 

“Were you always this boring, or did the fae blood sap the humour out of you?” Tony batted his eyelashes innocently over his shoulder as he worked. “Family records always said fae were a vicious, evil bunch, but nothing about the complete lack of comedic appreciation. I’ve never even heard you use sarcasm.”

 

“Can’t lie, so no can do on sarcasm.” Steve shrugged. “But I’m plenty funny. Ever consider that maybe you’re not?”

 

“Impossible. I’m a _delight_.”

 

Steve snorted again. Tony looked briefly triumphant, promptly hiding it in his work. God forbid Tony Stark show emotion.

 

“Was reading up on it, y’know,” Tony said so casually that Steve almost missed the way his shoulders hunched in on themselves like they did when he was nervous or focused. “About fae bullshit, I mean.”

 

Steve concentrated, trying to coax Tony’s thoughts to the surface. The static in the back of his head was still louder but he could vaguely feel bits of anxiety and jitters from the mechanic. Nothing serious, though.

 

“Yeah? Find anything good?” Steve leaned back in his seat, careful to shuffle so that the seat back rested comfortably between his shoulders and wings. It pinched a little, but not enough for him to mind terribly.

 

“Mmhm,” Tony said. “Apparently the potency of fae stuff depends on when it’s collected. There’s lots of lore on fae ring mushrooms that details the insane stuff witches used to use them for. Summoning up creatures from alternate dimensions, bringing life back to the dead, that kind of wholesome legendary shit.”

 

Steve chuckled.

 

“But the ones that are collected nowadays could maybe cure you of a bad flu, or help you keep bugs out of your kitchen. Any modern day witch could tell you that.” Tony paused to look at Steve, making sure he was following along.

 

Steve nodded and gave him a wry grin. “Provided you could get a witch to actually talk to you, Stark.”

 

“Hey.” Tony pointed a wrench at him and Steve flinched a little from the iron grip. Tony winced and put the wrench down. “Okay, that was poorly timed, but. My dad was decent friends with the witc--Er. Peggy. And I’m getting better at this whole…”

 

He gesticulated vaguely. “Being friends with the mystical beings that keep invading my fucking lab.”

 

“You invited me.” Steve grinned.

 

“Details.” Tony spun back around to continue his work. “Besides, you see any cold iron bombs around here?”

 

Steve laughed. “Improvement at it’s finest.”

 

“Took the iron out of the suits too.” Tony nodded as he worked. “Was too heavy anyway. Messing with the aerodynamics. And I _guess_ not making you flinch every time I try to high five you is a perk.”

 

“Gee, _thanks_.”

 

“You’re welcome, test-tube,” Tony replied cheerfully. “But as I was saying before I was so rudely distracted. I used to assume that fae potency was exaggerated. Humans have this nasty habit of hyperbole--we like to make our wins bigger, and our losses seem insignificant. So it made sense that the fae were some absurd impossible source of pure, unfiltered magic. There’s no way that the mushrooms Sam buys from the Underground Market could have ever raised someone from the dead, right?”

 

“Right,” Steve plays along.

 

“ _Wrong_. Here’s where it gets interesting.” Tony set his tools aside, and pulled up holographic screens. It took Steve a second to recognize it, but it was Peggy’s journal. The original, non-published version. “See here, two years before she met you, she details having done some scrying. She used some purchased fae hair, but more or less pronounced it useless.”

 

Steve frowned. “But--”

 

“You’re getting ahead of me, Rogers.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Here, in this section, you can actually see the hair she used taped to the page.” Tony gestured to the later entry. “Your hair, if I’m not mistaken. Her notes here said that she had so much power to work with that she more or less just focused on trying to herd you towards your goal. That, and these are her words, it was like ‘trying to bridle a tempest with mortal means.’”

 

A small, sad smile spread across Steve’s face. That had been one of the last times they’d spoken together in person before the plane crash.

 

“And you, may I remind you,” Tony’s voice dropped in pitch theatrically, “aren’t _organic_ fae. You’re not the _real deal._ ”

 

“So what’s your point?” Steve sighed.

 

“My _point_ is that the same principle applies to mushrooms that applies to hair that applies to blood.” Tony whirled around again to give Steve his full attention. Or, well. Most of it. He was still tinkering with something in his lap. “The blood Erskine gave you not only had to somehow deem you compatible--”

 

“So that I didn’t get ripped apart, yeah. I know.” Steve cringed. “Got that memo.”

 

“--and it had to have been fresh,” Tony finished. No snarky follow up. No wry commentary. Just staring at Steve pointedly, like he expected something. “Fresh fae blood that accepted you as it’s own, that just so happened to be in the area when you were. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

 

Steve’s throat went dry. “Couldn’t it have been a couple decades old?”

 

“Could have, sure,” Tony conceded. “But I’m having trouble imagining how one would go about collecting that sort of thing to begin with. Never mind how anyone could keep that kind of power a secret, and untouched, until you happened to find it.”

 

Steve sat forward, suddenly uncomfortable. “What are you saying?”

 

“What if my dad was wrong?” A smile split across Tony’s face. “What if there are still some fae left? It’s a terrifying thought, sure, but if we could find them, maybe you would have a better chance at understanding… Well. _You_.”

 

Steve stood up abruptly, scratching at the back of his neck. The static in his head felt louder somehow. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it still grew. Pins and needles poked at the skin along his spine and the top of shoulders. He felt like he was being jabbed from all angles, but when he tried to move, his limbs didn’t cooperate. He struggled for a second, eyes widening before Tony seemed to pick up that something was actually wrong.

 

“Hey. Steve.” Tony was cautiously approaching, hands raised. “Can you tell me what you feel? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

 

Steve looked at him, confused, and for a moment Tony was wearing a white lab coat, holding a clipboard under his palm and Steve was terrified. The intensity of it must’ve soaked out past his control because Tony took a startled step back, hand going to the arc reactor in his chest protectively.

 

Steve opened his mouth to speak, to ask for help, but something surged through him. He whipped backwards, back bent and limbs twisted. He grit his teeth hard, but something prevented his jaw from shutting. He could vaguely hear Tony’s voice, but the pain tearing wreckage through his body gave no room for him to come back to himself.

 

And just like that, the static was back, as plain and untouchable as always. Serene. Silent.

 

Steve collapsed on the ground, shaking. Tony rushed over to him. He held out a hand warily, not sure if touch was alright. Steve took the hand, and couldn’t even muster a laugh as Tony struggled valiantly to pull Steve’s weight (wings and all) upright. A gentle touch guided him back to the chair.

 

“You uh,” Tony’s eyes searched him, looking for the ailment. “You alright?”

 

Steve cringed, and swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

 

“That ever happen before?”

 

Steve shook his head. Tony frowned.

 

“Should I be worried, Mr. Stark?” Steve managed to smile a little, letting the grim humour speak for itself.

 

Tony huffed. “Well, if you’ve never experienced it before, it’s unlikely that it’s a side effect of the blood transfusion. Something must have set you off. I think.”

 

“You think?”

 

“Don’t sass me. Fae bullshit is hard to predict,” Tony grumbled. “Stay put. I’m going to get you some water.”

 

Steve waved off his concern tiredly. “Nah, it’s alright. I think I need to go lay down for a while anyway.”

 

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean… Take a break? Like an actual break?”

 

Steve shoved at Tony’s shoulder half-heartedly and forced a weak smile as he passed him to head back to the elevator. “Yeah, yeah. An actual break.”  

 

But even when Steve’s back hit the mattress, Tony’s excited words bounced around in his head, threatening to pierce another hole in the static. The blood was fresh. The blood had been friendly. Steve ran his right hand down his left forearm, feeling at the spot where the blood transfusion had been.

 

 _Bucky’s_ blood. Steve closed his eyes. He had _Bucky’s blood_ in his veins.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You’re gunna want to match me, y’know?_ ”

 

It’s 1942 and they’re dancing.

 

Bucky’s hand was at his waist and Blackbird was warbling out from the brand new record player with more clarity than was possible.

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Bucky’s voice came from behind Steve, and it sounded wrong.

 

He squinted, trying to make out the details of Bucky’s face, but the air was as hazy as always. He’d catch a curve of lips, the tip of Bucky’s nose, or the messy fringe escaping from where he’d slicked it back, but never altogether. Never clear enough to piece together.

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

Steve could see the couch out of the corner of his eyes, could see their kitchen behind it.

 

“Like that?” Steve asked helplessly, repeating the same motions of the memory like it would stay longer if he cooperated.

 

“ _Yeah, Stevie_ ,” Bucky murmured against his cheek. “ _Like that._ ”

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

There was a man in their living room. He was sitting on the floor, head tilted back on the seat of the couch, his long brown hair stringy around his face. He was battered, the clothing he wore ripped at the seams and stained with dirt and blood. His lip was swollen on one side and a bruise marred the crest of his left cheek.

 

Folded behind him were matted wings, too gunked up for Steve to tell their colouring, but his eyes were locked on the man’s face anyways. Bucky tried to pull him away, back into the dance. Steve tugged his hands free, keeping his eye on the hazy figure in front of him. The static crinkle in the record player flared up loud and threatening.

 

“ _Little bit faster now, alright?_ ” Bucky’s voice was soft behind him.

 

Even as he stepped away, Steve looked behind him and saw that Bucky was still dancing with the smaller version of himself. Watched as he missed the steps, laughing and leaning into Bucky without a care in the world. No wings in sight.

 

He turned back to the man.

 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man repeated, voice hoarse.

 

Steve didn’t respond, just moved closer. He saw the curve of the man’s lips from beneath the swelling, saw the tip of his broad nose, and recognized the dark brown of his hair. Steve’s heart dropped.

 

“Bucky?” he whispered.

 

The man groaned like he was in pain and Steve moved to him quickly. But as soon as Steve was close enough to reach out and touch, the man vanished, appearing again backed up against the kitchen counter. One wing was spread out in a way that looked defensive. The other, the left wing, was still crumpled against him. There was a glimmer of steel that lined the bone of it and Steve tried to move closer again.

 

“ _No._ ” He held up a hand and only then did Steve notice that his left sleeve had been tied off at his shoulder. “No, just… Give me a second. Stay there.”

 

“Bucky?” Steve asked again.

 

Behind him, he heard his memory say, “ _What’re you lookin’ at?_ ”

 

“ _Uh,_ ” Bucky from 1942 stammered. “ _Nothing. I was just…_ ”

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

Cold blue eyes scanned him and the memory both, face scrunched up in concentration, and Steve knew that face. Knew it black and blue, and bloodied, and frozen and every other shade of hurt that his nightmares threw at him. The missing arm was new, and the hair was new, but--

 

“You,” the Bucky in front of him cleared his throat. “You’re Steve. You’re…” he gestured to the memory behind Steve.

 

Steve nodded.

 

“And I’m…?”

 

“Bucky, yeah,” Steve repeated. He smiled a little. “I thought you were dead.”

 

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky croaked, split lip becoming obvious when he tried to grin and Steve’s heart hammered in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky raised his hand again. “I need you to listen to me, Stevie.”

 

“Of course, Buck--”

 

“No, _listen_ ,” Bucky insisted, eyes a touch wild. “This is your dream, right?”

 

Steve faltered at that. That was new too. “I… Yeah, I think so?”

 

Bucky nodded once, twice, looking around him again before locking eyes with Steve. “I need you to listen close, alright?”

 

“I’m listening, Buck,” Steve tried to assure him.

 

“You need to go find Fury and get him out of New York,” Bucky said. And of all the things Steve had expected, that had been nowhere near the list.

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know how you got through my wall, but… You need to know. Fury. Nick Fury. He’s been targeted.” Bucky’s eyes darted back and forth frantically, looking over his shoulder like he expected to find someone. “SHIELD’s been targeted. _You’ve_ been targeted.”

 

“Buck, this is just a dream,” Steve said quietly. “No one’s targeted--”

 

“This is a dream but I’m not,” Bucky interrupted angrily. He grimaced, trying to search for the right words. “I’m real. You’re real. Shit. …. _Are_ you real?”

 

“Yeah, Buck, I’m real.” Steve’s throat was closing tight.

 

“Then I need you to trust me,” Bucky pleaded. “Please. I know you’re important. I don’t know why, but I know--”

 

He broke off with an anguished shout and brought his hand up to the side of his head, rapping at his skull with a half-closed fist. “C’mon. _C’mon_.”

 

Steve rushed forward again, and again the new Bucky vanished, now kneeling on the couch behind him. Steve’s mouth hung open uselessly, and he could feel the weight of his wings dragging behind him as he turned. The fear in Bucky’s eyes was so out of place, so visceral that he looked like a different person entirely than the memory of 1942 still standing behind him.

 

“ _Yeah, I was just…_ ” The memory was so quiet, muddled in the warbling of the song and the crinkle of record static.

 

“ _You were just?_ ” Memory Steve challenged, and Steve looked between the pair and the terrified man on his couch.

 

“ _Could I…?_ ” 1942 Bucky asked at the same time the one on his couch said, “Do you trust me Steve?”

 

“Of course,” Steve urged, over the top of his memory’s pleading, “ _Yeah?_ ”

 

“ _Would it be alright if I...?_ ” 1942’s hand came up to cup his memory’s face, and Steve mimicked the touch on his own cheek. Want surged through him like it always did and--

 

“Focus, Steve,” Bucky urged, dragging Steve’s attention away from the memory. “You need to wake up. You need to take Nick Fury and you need to leave New York.”

 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t understand, Bucky. You’re _dead_.”

 

Bucky’s laugh was hollow. “Wake up, Steve. C’mon. I need you to _wake up._ ”

 

Steve’s memory uttered something low and Steve knew from memory that he just barely managed to get the ‘ _please’_ out before Bucky’s lips had come crashing down to meet his own and--

 

“Wake up, Stevie. _Now_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam sat next to him, a hand gently resting on his shoulder. Natasha was on his other side, face an expressionless mask. Fury sat across from them. All eyes in the booth were focused on the data pad in the middle of the table.

 

A heavily-armed infiltrator had stormed SHIELD. Witnesses were saying that he’d appeared out of nowhere, dropping from the sky and landing in the middle of traffic. The clips of him were blurry, but Steve could make out a metal arm and a black mask covering the man’s face. The long brown hair made his gut twist.

 

He said nothing as Fury’s finger dragged across the video bar, taking the picture back to the beginning of the clip with razor sharp precision.

 

He let the clip play again, cutting the reporter off mid-sentence when she tried to recite the facts. His finger dragged along the bar, back to where the clip started. He tapped once to let it play, then tapped again quickly to pause the image.

 

The man hit the ground with one knee bent and his metal arm punching the ground to absorb the shock. Cracks in the cement were visible even through the blur, but Fury had his eye on something else. He dragged the image back a split second.

 

“There,” Fury said quietly, pushing the data pad closer to Sam, Nat, and Steve.

 

Sam shrugged. “I don’t get it. They’re wings. So?”

 

“Means he’s not human?” Natasha tried, shaking her head.

 

“Those aren’t angel wings,” Sam said. “Harpy, maybe?”

 

Steve stayed silent, tongue caught in his throat and the air stolen from his lungs.

 

“Steve.” Fury’s voice did that thing where it was gentle but firm. It brokered no argument. “Do you know him?”

 

Steve’s jaw clenched painfully tight.

 

Fury pressed on. “Remind me again how you knew this was going to happen.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was 1942 and they were dancing.

 

They were supposed to be dancing, but Steve let Bucky’s hands go as soon as the dream started.

 

“Hey!” Steve shouted, looking up at the ceiling for lack of anywhere else to look. “Please, I know you can hear me. I know you’re there. I saw you, Buck.”

 

The apartment echoed with the sounds of Blackbird, the crinkle of record static irritatingly constant. Steve’s skin was crawling. He pushed through their bedroom, their closet, the fucking coat rack by the door, moving listlessly and desperate.

 

“Bucky, please.” Steve’s voice covered the sounds of his memory. He stared at his likeness, holding Bucky’s tenderly. The bliss on his face was so foreign now and Steve couldn’t feel any of the joy he knew must’ve been radiating from them. “Don’t do this. Don’t stay hidden. Don’t lie to me.”

 

“You know damn well that I can’t.” Bucky’s voice was rough, strained as it was the last time.

 

Steve clenched his jaw before he turned to face the source of the voice, bracing himself. Still, his stomach sank through his feet at the sight of Bucky. If anything, the bruises and scrapes that dotted Bucky’s skin were worse. Blood trickled slowly from the open wounds, drawing sharp lines across his skin.

 

“Is it really you?” Steve asked. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He could feel the fear slinking off of Bucky in waves. Could feel the bitterness. And the cold. “My God, Buck, are you really alive?”

 

“You can’t do this, Steve.” Bucky’s eyes were locked on the floor. “I shouldn’t have contacted you the first time. Was scared, but that ain’t a fucking excuse. Shouldn’t have said shit--”

 

Steve crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Bucky, ducking his face into Bucky’s neck and holding tight. The detail was still there. No haze, no blur that came with dreams. He was real and he still smelled like wildfires and spice and copper.

 

“Don’t,” Steve pressed. “Don’t ask that of me.”

 

Bucky winced. “Stevie, you don’t understand. I can’t always control what I’ll be like when I hear you. Can’t know for sure if I’ll remember you even--”

 

“Is that really what you want?” Steve leaned away to demand. “You want me to leave you alone?”

 

“I want you to be safe,” Bucky rasped.

 

Steve’s jaw clenched. “ _Not what I asked._ Do you want me to leave you alone?”

 

Bucky’s brows knit together tightly and the shadows under the angles of his face were harsher than Steve had ever seen them. But he stayed silent. Steve brought his hand up gently and physically hurt when Bucky flinched at the contact. He pulled away.

 

“I’m not the same, Stevie,” Bucky tried. “Ain’t the same guy you knew. Barely held onto this, to you--”

 

“Be whoever you gotta. I’m just so damn glad you’re alive, Buck, you got no idea. No fuckin’ idea.”

 

Bucky’s lips curled up at the edges and he met Steve’s eyes briefly. “Think I got some idea. Crashing a plane into the fucking arctic, huh?”

 

Then it was apparently Steve’s turn to have a stare off with the floor. Bucky chuffed. He brought his hand up to cover Steve’s, leaning into the touch with a look that broke Steve’s heart.

 

“That’s why you gotta stay away, Steve,” Bucky started again through a shaky breath. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

 

“Just tell me how to get through to you.” Steve rocked forward, hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. “Just tell me, Buck, and I’ll do it.”

 

Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut. “You can’t, Steve. This’s it, pal. S’all I’ve got left of my memories. They took’em, they took all of it and--”

 

“Who?” Steve pressed. “Just tell me what to do Buck.”

 

Bucky stepped away, anger flashing over his features sharply. “No, you need to listen to me, punk. There’s no getting through to me. If you come within shooting distance, you put a cold iron bullet straight through my fuckin’ head--”

 

“ _No,_ ” Steve snapped. Bucky flinched again and Steve forcibly calmed himself. “No. I can’t do that. You can’t ask me to watch you die again.”

 

Bucky’s anger filled the apartment, seeping in like oil. It curled around the corners of the place, filled the crevices of the couch and splashed up over the memory, engulfing it. Steve watched, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The rage he saw cross Bucky’s face was foreign, vicious. He took a hesitant step back and the anger broke like glass. Bucky looked horrified.

 

Bucky and the feel of him vanished, leaving Steve alone in a crumpled heap in his old living room. The sound of Blackbird crackled and hummed as his memories danced to life around him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tony paced back and forth in front of the holographic projections he’d pulled to the far end of the lab. He adjusted them, doing his best to pretend like he wasn’t watching the door carefully to make sure every one of the Avengers was present before he started. Steve’s knee bounced anxiously under the table. After Natasha walked in, Tony made a big show of dimming the lights, hand lowering slowly.

 

“We all in?” Tony gave the room a cursory look. But he already knew the answer and more than anything Steve wished he would just fucking get on with it. “Good. Great. This is going to be a mess. Strap in.”

 

The first projection scaled up with a snap of the engineer’s fingers, flooding the back wall like a movie screen. There were diagrams on it so detailed that Steve had to squint to read the axis labels. Tony launched into an explanation of human blood types, and the science behind getting a body to accept foreign organs as its own. At one point there was a fucking animation.

 

“...the point is,” Tony said, snapping his fingers again. A beautifully illustrated painting of Tinkerbell showed up on the back wall. Steve rolled his eyes so hard they hurt. “While none of the science we use on our own blood applies to faeries, it’s still blood.”

 

“Still keeps ’em moving, replicates fast enough to clot most injuries at speeds that even I can’t capture footage off. But it functions the same. And it’s necessary to their physiology.” Tony paused, checking to make sure everyone was keeping up. “So, y’know. If you poison their blood with cold iron, they die.”

 

His eyes flickered over to Steve briefly and immediately snapped back to the presentation.

 

“But instead of blood types, their blood is fucking magic.” Tony scowled. “Actual fucking magic. I’ve taken hundreds of samples of Steve’s blood and the properties change by the hour. By his mood, even. One time, I spilled some on myself and it fucking _burned--_ ”

 

“Tony,” Steve interrupted sharply.

 

“Yeah, he was in _that_ mood then too,” Tony informed the room helpfully. “Point is that the only reason Steve’s blood isn’t ripping him to pieces is because the donor accepted him completely. Like a personified version of the body accepting the foreign organ. Except… Somehow grosser.”

 

Fury frowned. “Does this mean Steve is in danger if the donor were to reject Steve?”

 

Steve ignored the chill that ran down his spine.

 

“I… don’t know.” Tony looked stumped. “Maybe. Not sure. It’s hard to tell when you have a data pool of one and that data is muddled up with human blood by default. You can’t really set up a control group--”

 

“Has Steve’s blood reacted to anything outside of his immediate stimuli?” Natasha interrupted.

 

Tony went quiet and his eyes locked on Steve’s, dark and unreadable. Steve remembered the incident and got the message as clearly as Tony could convey it. He gave the engineer a sharp nod and took interest in the papers in front of him.

 

“Once,” Tony said cautiously. “Maybe. Not really sure it was Steve’s blood, per se. Could be the whole psychic hive mind thing the fae had going on for a while.”

 

Fury looked at Steve expectantly and Steve could feel his eyes boring into the back of his skull.

 

“Sometimes,” Steve started, then cleared his throat, “if someone is feeling something strongly enough, or remembering something clearly enough, I can get bits and pieces of it just by being near them. The stronger they feel it, the further away I can be to sense it.”

 

“And by sense, you mean…?” Fury let the question dangle in the air.

 

“Experience it, yeah.” Steve nodded.

 

“Empathetic link,” Tony added. “Literal, not metaphorical.”

 

Fury nodded. “I see. And you think that’s what caused the incident?”

 

Steve shrugged helplessly. “It wasn’t just a feeling. I saw whatever he saw. Felt what he felt. I don’t know. It hurt but it wasn’t _that_ kind of hurt.”

 

“With all due respect, Captain,” Fury looked skeptical, “how would you know the difference?”

 

“I’ve got a lot of history with my own body trying to kill me,” Steve said dryly. “This was different.”

 

Fury nodded and gestured for Tony to continue.

 

“In what I’ve seen, Steve’s blood itself changes properties only when he changes himself. ‘Course I haven’t been able to monitor it during an incident, but the correlation between direct stimuli and physiological change is too close to be coincidental.” Tony snapped his fingers again and the projected images faded into the air, the lights slowly coming back up around them. “But stay with me. This is where it gets interesting.”

 

“See, whoever Steve’s blood donor is, they gave him a direct link to their own mind.” Tony had that giddy look he got whenever he introduced something that was bound to cause trouble. “That’s why Steve experienced that incident, I think. That’s why Steve could communicate across long distances and without even being conscious. The blood that runs in Steve is his own now, but the source of the magic is the same.”

 

When the room stayed silent, Tony groaned and tried again.

 

“If Steve’s the organ here and his mysterious blood-donor-turned-mass-murderer is the receiving body, Steve doesn’t have to worry about fighting anti-bodies.”

 

“Steve’s our key,” Natasha said. “He could break the Winter Soldier’s magic down from the source. Get into his head and--”

 

“ _No,_ ” Steve growled.

 

The whole room fell silent. Tony shuffled his weight back and forth awkwardly, looking at Steve like he might yell at any moment.

 

“We’re not going to kill the fae again,” Steve spoke firmly. “There has to be another way.”

 

From the corner of the room, he could feel Sam’s uneasiness, could feel Natasha’s doubt. He could practically touch the gears grinding in Fury’s head, feel the tension in his neck as he tried to crank out a plan. The anxiety radiating off of Tony was practically an aura. Steve ran a hand over his face.

 

“He’s my friend,” Steve said quietly. “Even if he weren’t the last of the fae--”

 

“Wait,” Tony’s voice pierced through. “Wait a fucking second. You’re telling me that we know this guy? That the mysterious last of the fae that has cropped up as an assassin with a leather kink and a metal arm--we _know_ him?”

 

“No,” Steve snapped and Tony’s eyes widened. “ _I_ know him.”

 

The room fell silent again.

 

“Is this one of those time travel things?” Clint’s voice was quickly hushed by Natasha and Steve tried not to grimace as she took him aside to explain.

 

Sam grabbed Steve’s shoulder gently and squeezed. His big brown eyes watched Steve carefully, full of the same concern and pity Steve thought he’d left behind in the 40’s. It was genuine, Steve knew that. The angel didn’t mean to condescend, but there was something about the righteous passion and unwavering protectiveness that made the whole damn species come off holier-than-thou as a default.

 

“You sure?” Sam kept his voice purposefully low.

 

“He knows me,” Steve insisted.

 

“Steve,” Sam pursed his lips, eyebrows knit together in thought. “There’s not an easy way to say this. But the fae… The real fae, I mean. They had some unfortunate tendencies. _Violent_ tendencies. The war didn’t start from nothing.”

 

Steve was on his feet in seconds, right up in Sam’s face. The halo behind his head bobbed as he jerked back, eyes wide.

 

“The fae were massacred.” Steve’s voice dropped low; a threat. “They were slaughtered and then systematically eliminated for trying to defend their own.”

 

“Steve, it’s not that simple--”

 

“You think violence is in his nature?” Steve snarled. “His blood is in _my_ veins. His nature is _my_ nature. You think he should be put down? Then you’ll have to put me down first. _Clear_?”

 

“All I’m saying,” Sam said carefully raising his hands in surrender, “is that you might be up against more than just whatever caused him to turn like this.”

 

Steve shook his head. Natasha had carefully maneuvered herself behind Sam and Steve watched as the banshee’s lips twitched. He could feel Fury behind him, and could practically feel the shift in the air as the dragon’s wings raised expectantly. Clint and Tony watched him blandly but Steve knew when he was being assessed as a threat. He breathed in deep through his nose, then exhaled sharply.

 

“Tomorrow there will be another attack,” Steve said calmly, meeting each of their eyes intentionally. “Understand that if you go in aiming to kill, that you should also be prepared to kill me.”

 

The tension in the room was thick enough to drown in, but Steve didn’t stick around long enough to hear the fallout.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was 1942, but they weren’t dancing.

 

His memories vacated the apartment, leaving behind an empty record player and the envelope containing Blackbird still held in the plastic shopping bag Bucky had brought home with him. There was no crackle, no hum, no warbling voice. No static.

 

Steve could feel Bucky in the room with him, but he didn’t turn around.

 

“They want to kill you,” he said to the empty space in front of him. “Told them they’d have to kill me first.”

 

Bucky snorted. “You’re such a fucking punk.”

 

“Yours, though,” Steve replied easily. “I’m still yours, y’know. If you want me.”

 

The room fell so silent and still that Steve was sure for a moment that Bucky had left. He twisted on the couch, needing to see for himself. The kitchen behind him was empty, and Steve felt his heart fracture down the center, splintering like ice. When he sat back again, Bucky was in front of him. He sat sprawled out on the floor, staring at the record player like it might bite.

 

Steve watched him. He drank it in, the way Bucky’s hair fell nearly to his shoulders. The way he held his wings in close to him, protective. He looked for the rise and fall of his chest and found stillness. The day in Tony’s lab tickled at the back of his memory as he realized Bucky didn’t even need to breathe. The creature before him had been faking it for the sickly human that still clung to his memory. The memory of a few years that must’ve been like the blink of an eye to Bucky.

 

As if Steve had said it outloud, Bucky’s gaze snapped to him, eyes hurt. He opened his mouth and Steve felt himself hold his breath. Bucky frowned, looking at the record player again.

 

“Do you remember the bridge?” Bucky said.

 

Steve’s nose scrunched up, trying to think. “The Brooklyn Bridge?”

 

“I dunno,” Bucky shrugged. “Maybe. Tall, long, full of metal and iron. Had some skinny-ass blond punk fallin’ off of it at high speeds. Knocked me straight out of the fuckin’ air.”

 

Steve huffed out a surprised laugh. “You mean the day you saved me.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean to.”

 

“...What?”

 

“Humans massacred the fae. You knew that. Magic wars n’stuff.” Bucky’s lips pulled into the pout that meant he was trying to think. “You knew that, right?”

 

“Figured it out.”

 

“Yeah, makes sense.” Bucky nodded. “You were always smart.”

 

The room quieted again, this time for a while. Bucky shot him nervous glances, as if he was afraid he was unwelcome somehow. Steve stayed still, patiently waiting before Bucky took another shuddering breath and continued.

 

“I meant to kill as many humans as I could get my hands on, y’know. That day when you fell from the fuckin’ sky.” Bucky’s gaze on the record player was even, steady. “They killed us. The fae, I mean. Figured I’d return the favour. Knew I was probably gunna die that day, but. Was gunna take as many of the fuckers with me as I could.”

 

Steve’s jaw hung open, eyes wide in shock.

 

“Aw,” Bucky’s voice was low and those eyes slid to him with such a rueful smirk that Steve flinched. “Don’t look like that Stevie. What m’trying to say is that you saved me, punk.”

 

“I--”

 

“No, shut up for a sec.” Bucky waved him quiet. “You saved me that day. With your stupid righteous, self-destructive bullshit. Showed me that humans were so much more than the war machine I’d read about. So much more than the cold iron they made.”

 

Bucky stood then and Steve didn’t miss the way his wings wilted behind him, the longest and lowest of the feathers dragging on the floor behind him as he moved toward Steve. His hand, battered and filthy, reached out to delicately trace the line of Steve’s jaw like he had back in 1942.

 

“You showed me why the fae fell in love with humans to begin with,” he said, so quiet Steve almost missed it.

 

The hand on Steve’s cheek retreated and Steve found himself leaning forward, chasing the warmth of it.

 

“They’re sending me back again.” Bucky slumped to the floor. “Dunno when. Soon. Probably.”

 

His eyes met Steve’s and didn’t drift away. Steve bit his tongue. It was probably best if Bucky didn’t know the Hydra intel SHIELD had uncovered.

 

“And you gotta be gone when I get there, Steve,” Bucky pleaded. “Please. M’begging you. Don’t let me destroy the only thing I’ve ever found worth saving.”

 

Steve shook his head. “I won’t Buck. I won’t let you.”

 

“You’ll skip town then?”

 

“No.” Steve smiled sadly.

 

Bucky sighed. He looked irritated but not surprised.

 

“I’m gunna get through to you, Buck,” Steve swore. He shuffled forward, sliding to the floor and scooting close enough to where he could grab Bucky’s hand with both of his own. “I’m gunna get through to you. You’re here, talkin’ to me, so you’ve gotta be in there somewhere. And I’ll find you. I promise.”

 

Bucky shook his head. “Nothin’ I can do to talk you out of it, huh?”

 

Steve beamed at him, suddenly feeling an awful lot like he was being reprimanded for picking fights in 1942 again.

 

“It ain’t possible,” Bucky said, staring at their twined hands. “But it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve proven me wrong on that. Stupid fuckin’ punk.”

 

“Jerk,” Steve said, and it was reflex more than anything.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Winter Soldier tore through downtown like it was tissue paper. The squadrons of police that tried to step between him and his targets got mowed down without a second thought. Steve watched in awe as the magic pulsed out from him, raw and wild and vicious.

 

Watched as he froze time to sidestep the fucking truck that should’ve hit him dead on.

 

And really, it was when Steve had been smashed through a total of four walls, punched more times than he could count, lost his shield in the debris, and was held perfectly still by the Winter Soldier’s power that Steve really understood just how out of his depth he was. He clawed at the static separating him from Bucky, trying to tear a hole in it big enough to break the dam, but he felt feeble.

 

“Bucky,” Steve choked out, “please. You know me. You’re my friend.”

 

The same face that had haunted him since he’d woken up scowled at him.

 

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The city around them was in ruins. Three construction zones had been practically levelled, changing the shape of the skyline around them in real time. And really, thank god for it. Otherwise Steve never would’ve had the idea.

It might’ve been blood loss, but Steve actually laughed. It was perfect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The asset’s mission was more or less complete, save for a few targets. And minus the iron bar the banshee had driven through his gut, he was relatively undamaged. Nothing his handlers could not repair.

 

SHIELD was in flames, and the agents that protected it could barely stay standing.

 

There was an angel, his energy loud and violent. The asset had torn off his wings. His metal arm had crushed the throat of the banshee. He’d been forcibly removed before he could finish the job. It did not matter. She was carried away by the Stark hunter. Two broken birds, one stone.

 

The false fae had promised nothing but destruction, though. He had torn at the barrier in the asset’s mind and it had no means of in-field repair.

 

He had also managed to escape from the immediate parameters.

 

The only warning was the target’s white wings faltering on the edge of the Brooklyn bridge before the wall in his mind ripped to pieces and everything went to hell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_It was 1942 and they were dancing._

 

_Bucky had brought home a record player somehow (‘don’t worry about it, Stevie’) and a record with a woman painted across the sleeve. Blackbird was written in gaudy royal blue across the bottom edge of it and Steve had a sinking feeling that it was going to be a slow song._

 

_His attention was captured the second the black disk started spinning, and he watched in awe as the horn-shaped piece attached to the whole mess vibrated with sound. A woman’s voice, a piano, and a whole jazz band hummed and whistled along with the tune. The crackling of the record itself hardly compared to the way the music filled their apartment, painting the walls with colour and sending light scattering through the air like it was trapped in a chandelier._

 

_Bucky stood up from where he was crouched over the new toy and gave Steve that look that meant he was in trouble._

 

_“Well. I know it isn’t a live band or nothin’ fancy, but...” Bucky sighed, and pushed a hand through his hair. It was already looking a little ragged after a full day’s work and Steve’s fingers itched to reach out and tuck away the stray pieces that fell onto his forehead. Bucky grinned wickedly and held out his hand. “Steve Rogers, will you do me the honour of giving me your first dance?”_

 

_Steve choked on nothing and let out a startled squeak that only made that stupid grin grow wider. “Oh my god.”_

 

_He glared at the hand stretched out before him, checking to see if Bucky’d strapped on one of those buzzers, or maybe doused it in itching powder or something. It had to be a trick. There was no way._

 

_“What?” Bucky laughed, tilting his head to follow Steve’s eyes._

 

_There was nothing on his face but that fucking frustrating sincerity that cut through him like a hot knife through butter. Steve squinted._

 

_“Are you going to make a thing out of this?” he asked pointedly. Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “You said you wouldn’t embarrass me--”_

 

_“We’re alone in our own damn apartment.” Bucky gestured around them broadly, laughing openly now. Steve could feel the heat in his face and knew he had to be blushing something fierce. “Exactly who’s watching you, Stevie?”_

 

_Steve’s heart felt like it was trying to fist fight his innards. “You are.”_

 

_Bucky got that fond look in his eye again. His eyebrows tilted up just slightly, and the curve of his smile lost the wickedness that lured Steve in every time. He puffed, trying to flick the bangs out of his eyes and moved towards Steve as graceful as anything. And Steve had to wonder if he knew--he had to know--just how far gone Steve was for Bucky Barnes._

 

_“Good thing I already think you’re a dumb punk,” Bucky said. But the way he said it made Steve sound like something precious. It distracted him long enough not to realize that Bucky had reached out and grabbed his hand. Steve gaped at him. Bucky’s eyes sparkled. “Now, c’mon. I’m gunna teach you some moves.”_

 

_Bucky pulled him in gently and Steve swallowed his nerves as best he could. His heart was already racing like he’d tried to run a mile and he felt like his veins were on fire. With Bucky’s hand on his waist, Steve could barely breathe. Could barely focus on anything but the red in Bucky’s lips, or the way his lashes dusted the tops of his cheeks when he stared down at their feet, murmuring something or other about the steps._

 

_“You’re gunna want to match me, y’know?”_

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

_Steve barely registered the words. He ripped his gaze away from Bucky’s face and tried to actually focus. Bucky stepped forward once, so Steve stepped back. He stepped off to the side, and Steve felt like he had two left feet as he tried to follow him. He pulled back and Steve stepped forward. Bucky squeezed his hand encouragingly and Steve felt faint. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat._

 

_“Like this?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice steady._

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

_Bucky looked up at him and grinned, nodding a little. Steve couldn’t help but mirror it. “Yeah, Stevie. Like that. Little bit faster now, alright?”_

 

_Steve nodded, keeping his eyes glued to their feet like they held the answers to the universe and clutching on to Bucky’s shoulder for dear life. He tripped once, but the hand at his waist kept him upright, and the hand twined with his own pushed and pulled him gently, rocking him across the wooden floor like it was simple._

 

_One step forward, one step to the side, one step back._

 

_The confidence Bucky exuded was intoxicating and Steve found himself soaking it in. He picked up the pace, matching Bucky’s steps with ease, moving his hips and bending to exaggerate their steps like Bucky did. When he’d leeched enough confidence, he looked back up at Bucky’s face._

 

 _And_ boy _was that a mistake._

 

_Bucky was so close that their noses practically touched. His chest was inches away from Steve’s and the grip on his waist pulled him closer still, insistently holding onto him like Bucky was afraid he might fall. Up close Steve could see the concentration etched into his best friend’s face. Could feel the way energy moved through him unlike anyone Steve had ever met. And when Bucky finally caught him staring, Steve couldn’t muster up the willpower to look away. For once, Steve Rogers let himself melt into the grip that held him steady. He let himself get lost in Bucky._

 

_Their steps faltered and slowed, no longer matching the rhythm. Panic bubbled up in his chest, but Bucky’s eyes were locked on his and Steve was trapped._

 

_“What’re you lookin’ at?” Steve forced out of his chest, trying to put on his best daring grin._

 

_“Uh.” Bucky’s eyebrows rocketed upwards and he blinked rapidly. Flustered, Steve thought. Bucky Barnes looked beautiful when he was flustered. “Nothing. I was just…”_

 

_The hand on Steve’s waist lifted away, carefully moving to trace along the line of Steve’s jaw and pausing just under his chin. Bucky’s eyes searched his face for something and Steve thought he might fucking combust with need._

 

_“Yeah, I was just…” Bucky shook his head, brows furrowing, like he was trying to clear his mind._

 

_His eyes had landed on Steve’s lips. The final notes of the song spun magic into the room. The chords came together with a flourish and the trill of of the woman’s voice tied it all together neatly. The song’s ending wove blues and purples and rich golds and reds into Steve’s mind, coaxing him further._

 

_“You were just…?” Steve prompted, leaning in closer._

 

_“Could I…?”_

 

_The song fell silent and the crackling of the spinning record was all that remained. Steve could hear his pulse in his ears and knew from the way his face was on fire that he had to be bright red. But he didn’t care. He felt drunk. He leaned in closer, pressing his luck._

 

_“Yeah?”_

 

_Bucky’s eyes were locked on Steve’s mouth and all Steve could think about was whether or not he even knew how to kiss at all._

 

_“Would it be alright if I…?”_

 

_Steve pushed them closer, hand moving from Bucky’s shoulder to his neck, tugging oh-so-slightly._

 

_“Yes,” Steve breathed, unwilling to wait for Bucky to spit it out already. The other man met his eyes in surprise and the dusting of red across his cheeks was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. “Please.”_

 

_As soon as their lips pressed together, Steve knew he loved Bucky Barnes._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve felt the last of his own energy leave him. It unfurled at his fingertips and he wasn’t sure that he’d even hit his mark. But the thrumming in his veins had quieted and the static subsided. For just a moment, just a split second, he felt the same peace he had in the living room of their apartment.

 

For just a moment, it was 1942 and they were dancing.

 

And then Steve was falling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t remember much. That was the official line, anyway. Just that he had fallen in the fight and somehow managed to end up plummeting off the side of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a miracle that he survived, the press had said. They insisted that he was lucky. And for once, Steve agreed.

 

However, it wasn’t a miracle that had saved him. He knew that much. It wasn’t a miracle this time just like it hadn’t been a miracle the first time he’d found himself careening towards the water.

 

It was Bucky Barnes who had caught him.

 

Bucky Barnes who dragged him to the shoreline.

 

Bucky Barnes who frantically checked his pulse, listened to his chest to see if he was breathing.

 

Bucky Barnes who pleaded with him to wake up.

 

‘ _Please, Stevie. Just breathe for me._ ’

 

And it was Bucky Barnes who he’d kissed; not the Winter Soldier.

 

The rush of confusion and need made everything all the more frantic, but those tawny wings had encircled him like they’d never left Bucky’s tent in France and Steve knew. He just _knew_.

 

Eight months later, Sam, Tony, and Nat had nearly driven him up the fucking wall with their ‘checking in’ on him. Everyone still eyed him like he was liable to burst into tears any goddamn moment and no matter how many times Steve insisted that he was fine, no one seemed to buy it.

 

He _was_ fine, too. The lead on Bucky’s whereabouts was cold, but it didn’t matter because the static in his mind was gone. Bucky didn’t say much, but occasionally Steve would feel the breeze on his back when he was indoors, or taste of plums on the tip of his tongue.

 

Once, Steve had accidentally responded to Natasha’s question in Russian but caught himself before he called her ‘Natalia’. He could practically feel Bucky snickering from wherever the fuck he was.

 

When he heard the tap-tap-tap against the window of his Brooklyn apartment, it was really not a surprise at all to see the huge tawny wings or the glint of metal off of Bucky’s left hand. The small nervous smile was enough to get Steve beaming.

 

He rushed over to the glass panes, not bothering to be careful with his own wings and subsequently knocking over one of the bar stools in the process. Bucky laughed at him as he fumbled with the latch and offered no assistance whatsoever as Steve struggled to yank the damn thing open.

 

It swung wider than he was expecting and the weight of Steve’s wings tipped him off balance just enough to land him flat on his ass. Fae-blooded or not, the wooden floors were still solid and unforgiving.

 

Bucky stayed perched where he was, head tilted and staring at Steve fondly.

 

“Looks like you could use a few pointers with those things, huh?” Bucky’s grin was wry.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, dazed. “Yeah, I could. Know anybody I could ask? I hear it’s a fae thing.”

 

Bucky laughed and Steve honest to god thought he might finally be able to replicate the way Bucky’s eyes glowed with feeling. One worn-thin combat boot touched the wooden planks of the living room floor, and another followed behind. His wings stretched out before fluttering shut and Steve just barely caught the weave of magic in the air before they disappeared under Bucky’s jacket and pressed into his skin.

 

The light behind him illuminated every strand of hair that had fallen out of his messy bun, and tucked around the edges of his outline. Small steps grew bolder as Bucky followed Steve down to where he was laying on the floor, resting between Steve’s thighs and reaching out to run his hand reverently through blond hair.

 

“Yeah, Stevie.” Bucky sounded hoarse and cleared his throat. This time, when his eyes started to glow, Steve got to watch it happen. And god. _God_. If Steve had thought he’d been breathless before. “I think I know a guy. If you’ll still have him.”

 

Steve laughed. He couldn’t help it, really. He pulled Bucky-- _his Bucky_ \--close and kissed him like he’d been dreaming of for seventy long years.

 

Officially? As far as the journalists knew it was the first and only time that Steve Rogers had fallen off the Brooklyn Bridge. Officially it was timing and luck that had managed to defeat the Winter Soldier. Officially, the Winter Soldier was dead. And officially it was a miracle that Steve Rogers had survived his fall from the bridge.

 

For once in his life, Steve Rogers didn’t argue. It was close enough to the truth, anyway.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for a follow up fic that's 100% pure unadulterated fluff as birthday gift for [Lefty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/pseuds/LeftHand)\--who is also the primary reason this fic exists at all. Thank you for humouring my ramblings and encouraging me to expand on AUs so enthusiastically. There's no way I could've done this without your help. 
> 
> Extra thanks to [Mango](http://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolentmango/pseuds/malevolentmango) and [Tsol](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorQui/pseuds/DoctorQui) who've been betaing this beast since the start (and I could actually feel them recoil from across the country when I admitted that this chapter ran at about 11k words. Whoops). And [Ivo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ivoughrie/works) for helping me with Tony (by basically BEING tony). And [Poptart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PoptartsUnlimited/pseuds/PoptartsUnlimited) for helping with botany and science details, as always. 
> 
> Honestly thanks to all of the Shipwatch server. You guys are incredible. Especially for putting up with my "brief" detour into MCU and away from Overwatch. 
> 
> Alright. That's all folks!

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on tumblr @[getmcfucked](www.getmcfucked.tumblr.com). I'm always down to scream about Stucky.


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